


The Waiting Game

by ladydirewolf1



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Angst, Bottom Dean, Closeted Castiel (Supernatural), Closeted Dean, College, College Student Dean, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Poverty, Professor Castiel, Professor Charlie Bradbury, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Teacher Castiel, Teacher-Student Relationship, Top Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-02-22 12:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13166514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydirewolf1/pseuds/ladydirewolf1
Summary: Castiel Novak is the new assistant Religious Studies professor. During his first week of classes, he can't help but notice the roughed-up Dean Winchester sitting in the back row. As their two paths continue to intersect, Castiel waits for Dean to let him in, while trying to keep the deepest parts of himself hidden from the world.***Temporarily on hiatus because of school***





	1. One

            It’s been a week of classes now, and Castiel hasn’t noticed the student before. Maybe he’s just getting over the daze of being a first time assistant professor, or maybe everyone in his class looks the same—baby-faced college kids that literally smell of East Coast money. Whatever the reason, it is long gone by now. All he can think about for his entire lecture on the origins of Christianity is the student in the back row with the green eyes, dusting of freckles, and purple bruise blooming on his jaw.

            “Professor Novak? I have a question.”

            Castiel looks up from his lecture notes at the boy with his hand in the air right in front of his podium. He looks older than some of the others, and even has wisps of a dark beard to prove it. “Go right ahead…” Castiel says, racking his brain for the kid’s name.

            “Metatron,” the student supplies before Castiel can even flip open his roster. “It says on the syllabus that we are required to bring a bible to every class, but you don’t specify which version.”

“Oh, well, there are a few options,” Cas begins, before the student cuts him off. As Metatron talks, Castiel’s eyes wander back to the green-eyed student. When the boy leans down to pull a notepad out of his backpack, the deep purple bruise looks ever bigger than before.

“Now, I believe that the discussion and subsequent interpretation of the text changes between editions…”

            Just as Metatron gets into his question, the students around him begin folding up their notebooks and stuffing them away.

            “Thanks for a great class, everybody, and have a safe and productive weekend!” Castiel says, raising his voice over the commotion. When he looks down to see Metatron still staring expectantly up at him, Castiel tells him that he’ll send out an email with specifics.

            As Castiel’s packing up his satchel to head to his next class, he notices the green-eyed student standing back by the door, phone in hand. Castiel hates himself for it, but he can’t help but glance at the boy’s open denim shirt, at the sleeves pushed up to reveal tanned, lean forearms. His muscles clench as he types and shifts on his feet. Castiel looks away and pretends to check he has all his materials, going over his books and notepads a third, then fourth time. When it doesn’t look like the boy’s going anywhere, Castiel sets his jaw and moves towards the doorway.  

            He’s hovering right by the door, and the student hasn’t looked up yet. Castiel clears his throat. The boy jumps, nearly dropping his phone. “Sorry there, professor. I was just…waiting for the next class. British Literature, or whatever.”

            Castiel frowns, but nods anyway. He thought the next professor to use this room was a history professor, but maybe he had misheard. “No problem,” Castiel says. The boy tilts his head and runs a hand over his hair. The bruise looks even worse up close, and Castiel’s frown deepens. He wants to ask if he’s all right, but maybe it’s just from football or something. Boys like this always seem to play football or some other rather physical sport, it seems. Besides, he’s not teaching high school. These kids are adults…technically. Even so, Castiel feels practically ancient being nine or so years older than them.

            “Have a nice weekend, Professor Novak,” the boy says quickly, turning his head to hide the mark. Castiel realizes he was staring and looks away, adjusting some files sticking out of his bag.

            “Right, yes. You too,” Castiel says. He nods again. “See you on Monday.”

            “Monday it is.” The boy flashes a smile.

            Castiel smiles back, then brushes past him out the door.

            The boy was probably fine. Nothing to worry about, especially when Castiel was already juggling teaching four courses, moving to a new town, and his overbearing parents who insisted on a lengthy phone call at least twice a week.

           

* * *

 

 

            “Charlie, I already told you I’d meet you there. Why won’t you believe me?” Castiel mutters into his phone as he walks away from his car parked along the street. He glances up at the corner sign, squinting with only the flickering yellow streetlamp for light.

            “Hmm, I don’t know,” Charlie sings into the phone. “Maybe because you haven’t gone out a day in your life since the one party you went to sophomore year of college and I don’t _really_ trust you to show up?”

            Castiel sighs and turns down a side street. She wasn’t wrong. “Just give me a few…it’s called The Roadhouse, right?” Castiel’s stopped outside some dive bar, complete with faded wood paneling and neon lights that look like they came straight out of an eighties movie.

            He can hear the chink of glasses and a loud whoop from the other end. That would be Charlie, all right. “Are you still there?” he asks, staring into the window of the bar. He doesn’t see any red-haired, shot-taking woman inside, but maybe she was in the back…Castiel glances at his screen and sees that the call ended. He sighs and puts away his phone.

            A couple in leather jackets comes stumbling out of the bar. As they walk past, the man eyes Castiel up and down with a sneer. Castiel looks away until they’re way off down the street, then glances down at his own outfit. He wonders if his work clothes hadn’t been the right choice…but what does he know? Last time he went out on the town, sweaters and slacks were probably considered cool.

            After a few more minutes of waiting for a call from Charlie, Castiel sucks down a deep breath and makes his way across the street. As he approaches, Castiel notices someone in a cuffed denim shirt pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. The person turns and freezes as their eyes meet.

            “Professor?” The kid glances around, looking nervous. “I didn’t expect to see someone like you here.”

            Castiel offers a soft smile. “Someone like me?”

            The kid looks away. “You know what I mean.”

            “You’re right, I do. I wouldn’t expect to see some nerdy professor here either, but I got sent to the wrong address.” Castiel steps closer. “Hope you don’t mind me asking, but you’re not…” he says, gesturing to the bar. Inside, he sees two men in dark jackets eyeing them through the grimy window. “I’m new to town, but I don’t believe the place is welcoming to kids that aren’t even legally allowed to drink yet.” The boy nods, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He shifts back and forth on his feet, looking agitated.

            “Castiel Novak,” Castiel says, sticking out a hand. “Don’t let the other students know I told you my real name,” he says jokingly.

            “Dean Winchester.” The boy shakes his hand. It’s warm but rougher than Castiel was expecting. Not that he was expecting anything, of course.

            “So then why are you here, Dean?” Castiel asks gently, dropping Dean’s hand.

            Dean bites his lip and looks inside the bar. Castiel’s eyes follow Dean’s, and he sees a large, dark-haired man sitting alone at the bar. Even through the glass, Castiel can tell how drunk the man is, swaying on his stool and motioning for a refill from the pretty bartender. “Picking someone up. It’ll only be a few more minutes, no big deal. My car’s only a block away.”

            Castiel looks back at him. He doesn’t want to pry, but he can’t exactly leave Dean outside some dive bar in the middle of the night, can he? “Do you want me to wait with you?”

            “Oh, no. No, I’m good,” Dean says, nodding a little too much to be sincere. “Been doing this since I learned how to drive.” When Castiel’s frown doesn’t go away, he gives Castiel another one of those large, toothy grins. It looks too big and tight on his face, but maybe that’s just the funky lighting from the Roadhouse signs.

            “All right then, Dean. Have a good night,” Castiel says begrudgingly. He turns around and makes it a few steps before stopping and turning. Dean meets his eyes. “You know my office is always open. For whatever reason, not just to discuss the origins of Christianity,” he offers.

            After Dean waves him goodbye, Castiel walks back to his car and sends a text to Charlie, telling her he couldn’t make it. Hopefully she’ll be too hungover to drag his ass the next morning. Castiel begins to head back to his apartment, then changes direction to approach The Roadhouse from the other side. He parks his little silver Toyota on the street, a few cars down from an old, black Chevy he knows is Dean’s. How could it not be?

            The street is quiet for a few minutes, then the bar’s doors swing open. He watches Dean lead out the large man from before, the man’s arm draped over Dean’s narrower shoulders. The two make it to the Chevy, and Dean has to catch the man from slumping over twice before he manages to unlock the doors. Dean pushes the man into the passenger seat, then slides behind the wheel.

            Castiel stares down the street until the Chevy is long gone and The Roadhouse doors are swinging open and shut with midnight patrons. He remembers today’s class and the first sight he got of the beautiful student with the bruised jaw. Castiel frowns. He’s not supposed to think like that. Not supposed to notice how freaking beautiful his student is, not supposed to get involved with some poor kid’s personal life, not supposed to worry if another deadbeat dad is fucking with his son’s future.

            But he can’t help it. He just can’t help it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and I would love to hear your thoughts!  
> Also if you want to find me elsewhere, I'm @not-so-quiet-on-the-inside on tumblr :)


	2. Two

“Morning.”

Castiel turns from his spot on their couch to see Charlie fumbling her way through the kitchen, slapping buttons on their Keurig and stuffing bread into the toaster.  He glances at the time on his laptop. “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Is it?” Charlie says, crouching down to retrieve a knife from the dishwasher. As she putters about the kitchen, Castiel returns to his computer and stack of quizzes, checking that he had marked all the questions and typing the grades into the school’s online system. He hadn’t been able to sleep when he got home last night, so getting some work done had seemed like a good idea. In the light of the afternoon (or morning, as Charlie viewed it), that hadn’t been the best decision. Castiel flips over one of the quizzes, squinting at something he scribbled with a red pen.

“Can you read what this says?” he asks as Charlie plops down on the couch beside him, plate of toast on the floor by her feet, chai tea in hand.

Charlie leans over. She has to squint, too. “Did you write that?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” She takes the paper and holds it up to her eyes. “Looks more like a kindergartener’s work to me. And I have to read the shit comp sci majors scratch out, so that’s saying something.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and snatches back the quiz. “Ha. Ha.” Castiel decides that his writing was probably inconsequential and types in the grade, moving on to the next paper in the stack. He can feel Charlie’s eyes on him as he works, so after a minute or two of his roommate’s torture, Castiel sets a quiz down and stares at her. “Let’s hear it out, then.”

“Hear what out?” Charlie asks innocently, sipping her tea.

“How I didn’t make it to the bar last night, how I’m too worked up about the new job to remember a simple address, how I’ll never find a boyfriend holed up in my apartment all weekend,” Castiel says, rolling his eyes. “Take your pick, but know I had a good reason for missing out.”

Charlie shrugs and set her mug down, pulling up her feet so she’s sitting cross-legged on their corduroy orange sofa. She looks expectantly at the plate on the floor, so Castiel hands it to her. “It’s all chill, Cas. Really,” she says, taking a bite of peanut butter toast. “More chicks for me.” When Castiel’s eyes go wide, she laughs, crumbs falling from her mouth. “Kidding! Geez, dude, not everyone in your life is under the illusion that you’re on the straight and narrow.”

Castiel rubs a hand over his jaw. He’ll need a shave before class on Monday. “Well, you’re about the only one as it is.”

“You could come out at the school, you know. Start over, away from your asshole parents.”

Castiel huffs. “Easy for you to say. Your mom and dad lived in San Francisco all their lives. Mine…” he begins, before letting the words go stale. Charlie already knows about Naomi and Bartholomew, and he’d rather not mention it on a perfectly good Saturday morning. “You teach computer science. It’s…different. I’m teaching Christianity to a bunch of rich college kids, for goodness sake,” he says, shaking his head. “Not in the plan, even if I managed to find someone to settle down with.”

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and Castiel can’t help but lean into it. He’s been stuck with Charlie since they shared an apartment with two other kids in college. As people who didn’t exactly follow the rules, they’d had to stick together for their own sanity’s’ sake.

“We’ll figure something out,” Charlie says, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “But for now,” she says, putting on a bright smile and setting her down empty plate, “let’s fly through the rest of these quizzes, yeah? Maybe we’ll be done in time for that English professor’s dinner party. You know, the super-hot chick that looks straight out of a fairy tale?”

As they work through the stack, Castiel listens to Charlie chat away about one of her new classes. Intro to Algorithms, he thinks. Or maybe Video Game Design? He can’t be sure, and besides, he doesn’t understand half the stuff that comes out of her mouth, even if it wasn’t going a mile a minute. She’s always been like that, ever since they met at the back row of some calculus class Castiel had to take to finish up his math requirement. It was nice, actually, to get out of his own head for once.

Eventually Charlie falls silent, and Castiel looks over to see her tongue sticking out between her teeth in confusion. “Hey, can you check your roster for one of your student’s names? I think the kid wrote a nickname or something on his quiz.”

Castiel nods and opens up another window. “What’s the name?”

“Dean,” she says. “Didn’t write a last name.”

“Huh,” Castiel mutters as he scrolls down the list. It’s about thirty kids, so he might have missed it the first time. He goes through the list a third time, but there’s no one named Dean. He checks for Winchester too, since that’s what Dean told him was his name last night outside the bar. “He’s not on here,” Castiel says, looking over at Charlie.

“You sure?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’m—”

Before he can finish, Charlie grabs the laptop from his legs and puts it on her own. “You’re right, for once,” Charlie says after a minute. “No Dean, no Winchester, no Dean Winchester on here.”

“Maybe he didn’t have time to properly register. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Why’s that?” Charlie asks, handing back the laptop.

“No reason,” Castiel says quickly. He prays Charlie doesn’t notice the flush on his cheeks. He shouldn’t care, but for some reason he’s embarrassed about their meeting last night outside The Roadhouse. Like he shouldn’t go around telling people. Like it’s a secret, for some reason, that he knows one of his student’s home life is rougher than any kid deserves, and that registration for college classes probably wasn’t a top priority.

“You could go down to the registrar’s office on Monday to get it fixed. The kid got a one hundred, after all.”

Castiel nods, scrolling down the list again, just to be sure. He glances down at the quiz, at neat, all caps letters spelling out Dean’s name. They’re a little too dark, a little too forced. Castiel imagines that strong, calloused hand pressing them out, and he blushes again. Luckily Charlie’s busy picking crumbs out of the sofa to notice. “Yeah…I’m sure it’s nothing. Just an mistake, that’s all.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you certain?”

Missouri Mosely eyes him over her old monitor. It’s white and boxy, and Castiel’s shocked a school as nice as this one hadn’t ever bothered to replace their office staff’s computers. He’d have to look into that another time…

“Yes, Mr. Novak. I have checked a dozen times, and the boy is not in our system,” Missouri says firmly. “There is no Dean Winchester registered at this school.”

Castiel leans back in his chair, running a hand over his jaw before letting it fall limply to his side. _And I forgot to shave, Dammit. What a week this will be_. “Could it be an error?”

Missouri’s lips purse, and Castiel knows he’s trying the woman’s patience. “These computers may not look like your fancy laptops and iPads, but I assure you, Professor, that they work just fine. Now are you certain you’ve got the right name?”

Castiel nods. “Pretty sure.”

Missouri gives him half a smile, her eyes softening a bit around the corners. “Honey, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more I can do for you at the moment. But if you do decide to get this boy registered, it will have to wait until the spring semester application opens up, you hear?”

He nods again and stands. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Mosley.”

“Missouri,” she says, nodding in thanks. “And you just come by with this Dean Winchester any time he’s ready.”

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel’s lecture on Genesis goes by achingly slow. The students look just as bored as he is, and it takes a couple of tries for Castiel to keep his eyes off Dean in the back row. Dean doesn’t look any worse for wear from what he can tell, but then again, the bruise didn’t look all that bad until Castiel had seen it up close. Dean scribbles down all the important things Castiel says, not even looking out the window or going for his phone once. For someone not even registered for the class, Dean’s more studious than most of the kids in the room.

When the clock finally works its way to three-twenty and the room’s filled with the sounds of the students packing up, Castiel steps away from his podium and moves a little closer to the door. He nods to the students as they leave and answers Metatron’s question about the 18th century literary symbolism of the Garden of Eden as quickly as he can before most everyone has filtered out. Only Dean is left, standing just like he was last week by the door, his eyes glued to his phone as he texts.

“Dean?”

He looks up, and a smile fills his face when he realizes it’s just Castiel. “Professor. Hey.”

Castiel looks around the room, then back at Dean. _Hopefully this doesn’t come off creepy, but here goes nothing_. “Can I have a quick chat with you, Dean?”

Dean’s lips part in surprise. “Now? Uh, I was waiting for someone. Maybe we can meet at your office sometime? Room 312, right?”

“Actually, Dean, it’s…kind of important.”

“Important?” Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “What could be so important, Professor? It’s only the second week of classes,” he says, trying to smile.

Castiel sighs. “That’s the thing, Dean…it can’t be your second week of classes if you’re not _registered_ for any classes. You’re not registered with the school at all.”

Dean’s lips part, then close, then part again. He glances at the door. “Look, man, if you’re going to kick me out, just…don’t bother. I won’t be back.” He turns to head out the door, but Castiel grabs his arm, at the spot where his forearm is exposed from his rolled-up flannel. _Shit._ Castiel lets go immediately, but it catches Dean’s attention.

“Dean, that’s not what I meant.” He waits for Dean to say something, but when he doesn’t and his head doesn’t turn back around, Castiel takes a breath and continues on. “I can help you, Dean,” he says gently. He looks at the skin he just touched, and his cheeks grow hot. “I can. I know that it’s sometimes difficult to find the time at home for this sort of thing, but I can go with you through the process step by step. I know what it’s like. Or if it’s a money thing, then…” his words go dry as Dean looks back at him, glaring.

“I know you think you can help or whatever, but I don’t need it, and I don’t need your money,” Dean spits out, his jaw set in a hard line. The bruise is faded now, more of a sickly green color splotched with purple. “I won’t bother you again,” he says more quietly, turning so Castiel can’t see his jaw.

“Dean, wait,” Castiel says. But Dean just shoulders his backpack and pushes through the door, leaving Castiel alone in the empty classroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and please let me know if you're liking it so far! What are some things you love to see in a college or professor/student AU?


	3. Three

            On Wednesday, Castiel spends his entire lecture glancing at the door, waiting for it to crack open and for a tousled brown head to appear. He doesn’t even notice when one of his students, Kevin, has to repeat a question three times before he answers, sending the group of jocks in the back corner into a fit of stifled laughter. Castiel’s cheeks grow hot, but he manages to ignore it and pull some answer about the biblical prophets out of his ass.  

            All that day and the next, Castiel finds his eyes scanning the autumnal campus as he moves between buildings. Sometime that afternoon right after classes have let out, Castiel is swarmed by students hurrying off to other classes or their dorms, chatting and laughing or pushing through the crowd with their headphones jammed in their ears. He knows it’s stupid to think Dean is one of them, but he can’t help but take a second glance at every young man wearing something that even vaguely resembles denim or plaid.

            By Friday, Castiel’s pretty much given up hope that Dean will come back. He spends his class period hunched over his desk grading papers while his students scribble away on a pop quiz. Every time a chair leg scrapes against the hardwood floor or a student clears their throat, Castiel’s eyes dart up, but every time his gut sinks a little lower. It’s silly, he knows, to be so invested in a student he barely knows. To care about someone he has no business caring about. But every time he tries to push those thoughts away, a little voice pops up in the back of his head.

            _Where was anyone when you needed help, Castiel? Do you want that same shit that happened to you to happen to Dean?... But that’s not all, is it?_

            Heat immediately rushes to his cheeks, and Castiel looks up from his desk. He swallows, waiting for someone to realize where his mind is at the moment, but everyone’s head is down, their eyes focused, not paying him an ounce of attention.

            It wasn’t just the academic thing, though, and Dean wasn’t just some random student he took pity on. He wanted to help because the moment his eyes fell on Dean in the back row of Intro to Christianity, his cheeks flushed and his stomach did a somersault and he just _knew_ this boy was different. Special.

            The only problem was that he was basically an old perv at twenty-eight, and Dean was what…eighteen? Nineteen? Straight too, in all likelihood. Not to mention everything that came along with a professor-student relationship. Or the fact that he was gay and locked away in the closet until he decided never to see his mother and family again. _Relationship_. _Did I really just think that?_

            Yeah, Castiel was definitely going to hell for these thoughts. Good thing he knew a thing or two about the landscape.

 

* * *

 

 

            After a weekend of grading and evading Charlie’s advances to drag him to some concert, Castiel finds himself tucked away in his corner office on the third floor of the Religious Studies building. It’s a small room with only a bookshelf, desk, and two chairs (at least he salvaged a rolling one from the English department), but Castiel figures it’s the best he’ll get as a new professor. There’s a window, at least. Charlie’s stuck in the basement of the Comp Sci building, right up against all the stifling heat of a computer lab.

            It’s late afternoon by now, and with all his classes done for the day, Castiel decides to get some admin done—cleaning up his files, setting up student conferences, editing next semester’s syllabus to include every little detail Metatron meticulously pointed out was missing during the first week of classes. It’s tedious work, but Castiel has always liked that sort of thing. It was clear, simple, unproblematic. He probably got it from his mother.

            As Castiel’s bent over sliding a folder into his drawer, he hears a knock on the door. “It’s open,” he calls out, praying it’s not one of those jocks coming to demand extra credit. Alastair, probably. He was the worst culprit, not to mention the lowest grade in the glass.

            “Hey, Professor.”

            Castiel’s head snaps up. “Dean,” he breathes out, eyes widening. Castiel blinks and clears his throat. “Dean,” he says, louder and hopefully more calmly. “I didn’t think you were going to come back.”

            Dean pulls in his bottom lip, his green eyes darting around Castiel’s tiny office. “I didn’t think so either, but I guess I had a change of heart,” he says carefully, like he planned out his words on the walk over. His backpack is hanging off one shoulder, and one hand is clamped to the strap. The other cradles his neck, smoothing the skin.

            Castiel’s a little sceptic, but he nods encouragingly. “Do you want to take a seat?” he asks. When he realizes that Dean’s back is ramrod straight and the knuckles on the hand clutching his backpack are turning white, he says in a light voice, “or we can head somewhere a little less… _claustrophobic_ ,” Castiel finishes, gesturing to his hard wooden furniture and bare office.

            Dean relaxes a bit at that, even quirking a smile. “Yeah, good idea. There’s that coffee shop just past the quad. The Daily Grind?”

            Castiel smiles back. “Perfect. I was about to get a coffee anyway.”

 

* * *

 

 

            “Know what’s good here?” Castiel asks as they wait in line. At four-thirty, the place is packed with students studying and hanging out, and the line stretches to the door.

            Dean shrugs and cranes his neck to look up at the chalkboard menu. “Sammy thinks frappes are pretty awesome.”

            “Sammy?”

            “My kid brother,” Dean says, shaking his head fondly. “Sammy’s a health nut, but I swear you put something coffee and sweet in his hand, and that boy has it down in a minute flat. God, I hope he grows out of it. The sugar highs are unbearable.”

            Castiel smiles, thinking about his own brother, Gabe. He would have loved this place. When they finally step up to the counter, Castiel asks the barista for a mocha frappe and tells her his name. She’s older than the other college kids working here, maybe even older than Castiel.

            “Sure thing,” she says brightly, tucking a dark curl behind her ear and marking something on a cup. “Anything for your guy?”

            Castiel’s eyes widen. “What?”

            The barista nods in Dean’s direction, and when Castiel glances his way, he notices a pink tinge to those sharp cheeks. “What will it be, honey?”

            “Oh, uh, I wasn’t—” Dean stammers, before Castiel turns back to the barista and jumps in.

            “The same for him.”

            The woman nods, and Castiel hands her his card. When they’ve shifted to the pickup counter, Dean turns to Castiel and says, “You didn’t have to order me something, Professor Novak.”

            Castiel waves it off, though his eyes are glued to the baristas working their magic. It was just the courteous thing to do, right? Professors probably did that all the time. It’s not like the barista _knew_ anything. Or that there was anything weird for her to notice at all. _It’s just because I look like a professor_ , Castiel assures himself. They were the ones with an actual salary, after all, even if it was only enough to afford an apartment with a roommate.

            Dean shrugs and doesn’t say anything else on the subject as they wait for their drinks. Castiel looks at Dean in his peripheral, watching his bright eyes take in the café like they were absorbing every person and detail. He wonders what kind of upbringing could create someone so hyperaware of their surroundings.

            Eventually the curly-haired barista slides their drinks across the counter. “Castiel!” she calls out, glancing their way with a coy smile before darting back to her register.

            “I thought it was just Professor Novak to us plebs,” Dean says, grabbing his drink.

            Castiel does the same and smiles. “I’m off duty at the moment, so I suppose I’ll let it slide.”

            He leads Dean to a table in the back, right under a big window. He scoots out a chair, and Dean takes the one opposite. In the late afternoon sun, Dean’s face is streaked with gold, and Castiel sucks in a sharp breath at the details he only now can see. His eyes quickly drink in the freckles scattered from his nose and across his cheekbones, like an explosion of tiny stars. In the light, Dean’s bruise is clearly almost gone, but he notices a new cut right up against his hairline. It doesn’t look too deep, so Castiel decides not to worry for now.

            “You gonna take a sip?”

            Castiel’s eyes refocus on Dean’s. And _damn_ , if they don’t look even better in the sunlight. He watches Dean bring his straw to his lips, his mouth puckering as he takes a sip. Castiel swallows, then grasps his own cup to do the same. When the cold, sweet coffee hits his tongue, his eyes widen.

            “This is good!” Castiel says, taking a deeper sip.

            Dean grins, though his brows scrunch together. “You’ve never had a frappe before?”

            Castiel shakes his head, and Dean snorts. “Man, Professor, you have got to get out more.” He lifts his cup again, smiling through his straw.

            Castiel smiles back, lost for a few seconds, before realizing why they came here in the first place. He reaches into his satchel and pulls out his laptop. “So,” he says, clearing his throat, “You’ve decided to officially register for classes?”

            Dean’s smile falters a bit, and he sets his drink down. “Like I said, change of heart.” “Of course, Dean,” Castiel says gently. “Can I ask why you changed your mind?”

            Dean looks out the window, not even squinting in the sun. His eyes glow a deep emerald, almost bronze in the center. “Just…realized that if I want a life after all this, I need to do it for real. For Sammy, mostly.”

            Castiel nods. He wants to press more, but worries that it’ll just scare Dean off. Besides, Castiel has no business knowing the gritty details of a student’s personal life. “Well then, I’m more than happy to help with the process, if that’s what you want,” Castiel says. “There’s only one issue that we’ll have to figure out, though.”

            “What’s that?” Dean asks, meeting his eyes again and frowning.

            Castiel opens his laptop and pulls up the school’s website, navigating to the right page to make sure he gets the date right. “Registration doesn’t open up until December 1st.”

            “I can’t get in this semester, you mean?”

            “I’m afraid not.”

            Dean huffs and presses his straw between his lips, sucking in hard. “So, what then? I just bum around at home waiting for the school to let me back in?”

            “That’s one option.”

            “And the other?”

            Castiel takes a sip of his frappe, then sighs. “You fake it.”

            Dean laughs. “As if the school’s just going to let me do that. _You_ found out in a week, and you’re just…well, you. You’re crazy if you think my hard-ass chemistry professor will just let me in, free of charge for a semester. The bitch thinks this is Harvard med school or something.” Castiel gives him a hard look, to which Dean apologizes sheepishly.

            Castiel huffs out a laugh. “You’re right, Dean. But I was doing some thinking, and I believe there is a way to make this work. We just have to…work around the system, is all.”

            “That so?”

            Castiel offers up a smile. “Do you trust me?”

            “I don’t know you.” Castiel holds his gaze until Dean finally breaks, grinning with his eyes wandering back out the window. After a moment, they drift back to Castiel’s, and for some fucked up reason, his heartbeat slips into overdrive. “But yeah, why the hell not,” Dean says, biting down on the tip of his straw like a cigarette. “I trust you.”

 

           

           

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and let me know if you liked this update! Are things going a bit ~too~ slow, for is it working for that slow-burn romance?


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a longer than usual chapter for you guys, hopefully that is ok. As always, thank you for reading, and I would love to hear your thoughts on the chapter. <3

The next month passes by in a blur, and in Castiel’s mind, that’s perfectly all right. He and Dean figured out his schedule that day at the coffee shop, and now Dean can reasonably pass as any other students. Although Dean is able to take Castiel’s Christianity class with no problem, the others were not so easy. For starters, Castiel had insisted that Dean take only big lecture classes, ones where a professor wasn’t likely to get to know him too well. On top of that, he couldn’t easily attend classes with frequent in-class quizzes and projects, as it was more than likely to draw suspicion if Dean was just sitting there while his classmates worked away. In the end, Dean was left with a full, albeit odd course load: Intro to Christianity, Physics 101, Art History I, and, despite Dean’s outspoken frustration, French for Beginners.

For Castiel, things slipped back into normalcy. He taught his classes, met with Dean at the coffee shop every week to work on his application, and even let Charlie pull him out of the apartment on the occasional weekend. Things were fine. Good. All he had to do was ignore the heat that built up in his lower abdomen when he stared at the back row during lectures for too long, or pretend Dean’s leg didn’t just bump against his own while they were working on essays over frozen coffees. It was fine. It had to be.

 

* * *

 

Castiel is working at their little Ikea kitchen table one Wednesday night when Charlie suddenly bursts through their front door. Without looking up from his laptop, he says lightly, “Oh good, you’re back. I want your opinion on something.”

“Uh, Castiel?” Charlie says in a muffled voice. “A little help here?”

He looks up, eyes widening at the blue plastic bags swinging from her arms as she attempts to shut the door with her elbow. “How much did you buy?” Castiel asks, taking several bags from her and placing them on the counter. “And why did you carry everything up in one trip?”

Charlie shrugs, her arms flapping like giant blue wings. “Convivence. And I figured that if we’re really going to have our first party, we’re going to do it _hella_ right.”

Castiel takes a few more bags off her, then begins unpacking. He pulls out at least five cartons of humus before turning to Charlie with his brows raised in question. “Really?”

“Kids these days love their humus,” she says wisely, scooping the cartons into her arms and sticking them into the fridge. “It’ll be a huge hit, I swear.”

“If you say so,” Castiel responds shaking his head. “If they don’t eat it all, I’m blaming you,” he says, pointing a bag of carrots in her direction. “This student get-together was your idea in the first place.”

“So what? I’m full of great ideas!” she says, tucking away the last few items as Castiel rounds up the bags and stuffs them in the cabinet under the sink. “Did you get the email invite out yet?”

“Just about to, but I wanted you to read it first,” Castiel says, settling back down in front of his laptop. Charlie hovers by his shoulder to read.

 

_Hello class,_

_In light of this weekend’s homecoming celebrations, I will be a hosting a little get together at my apartment this Friday at 7 PM for any religious studies students interested in attending. Come alone or bring a friend or date, but keep your plus one **to just one** , please._

_Once you let me know you plan to attend, I’ll follow up with an address._

_Best,_

_Professor Novak_

 

“So what do you think?” Castiel asks, looking up at Charlie.

“Good,” she says, straightening. “You only sound like half the dork you are.”

“Hey!” Castiel says, though he can’t help but smile. “None of our professors ever did things like this,” he reminds her. “At least I get some hip-professor points for hosting a party.”

Charlie rolls her eyes and laughs. “Those points go right to _me_ , buddy,” she says, jerking her thumb at her chest. “I’m the one doing all the hard work.”

Castiel hits send on the email and shakes his head, grinning. “Can’t argue with that.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, Castiel’s standing at his podium waiting for his last class of the day, Theory of Religion, to finish when his phone lights up.

After checking that his students are all still working quietly on their group projects, he presses the little email notification and begins reading.

 

_Professor Novak,_

_Sorry it’s kind of late, but I can go to your party thing, if that’s ok. Also, I’ll be bringing a plus one._

_Thanks,_

_Dean Winchester_

 

Castiel reads over the first sentence, smiling. When his eyes reach the second one, his smile drops, and Castiel turns over his phone. Of course his stomach flipped with shameful excitement of the thought of Dean coming over, even if it was a strictly professional environment, but when the words “plus one” popped into his head, a twinge of _something_ worked its way through his chest, popping that little bubble of selfish hope.

Plus one didn’t have to mean anything. He did write _friend_ in the email, after all. Even without living on campus, Castiel would be shocked to learn that Dean didn’t make any friends during his time here. Yes, he looked a little intimidating at first with his piercing eyes and sharp features, but over the past month, Castiel had learned so much more about him. Dean was funny, and smart, protective of his brother. Sure, his words sometimes jumped too quickly out of his mouth before his brain had time to catch up, but it was…endearing. People probably have been drawn to Dean all his life. _People his own age, though_ , a voice warns from the back of Castiel’s head. _People he wants to have in his life, not some creepy professor._

“Professor Novak?”

Castiel startles, knocking into his podium before righting it with his hands. “Claire,” he says blinking to clear his vision. Fuck, he was even getting distracted in classes besides Dean’s now. Castiel takes a breath and puts on his tight, professor smile. “What can I help you with?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Cas, can you get the door?” Charlie shouts from the kitchen.

Castiel sets down the tray of pita bread in his hands and walks over to the front of the apartment. He peers out the peephole before pulling open the door.

“Metatron,” he says politely, stepping out of the way. “Glad you found the place all right. You’re a bit early, though. The party isn’t until another…” he says, checking his watch, “twenty minutes.”

Metatron doesn’t move from the threshold. “That’s ok,” he says eagerly, pursing his lips. For some reason, Castiel can’t get the image of two fat worms sliding together out of his head. “I’ll just…poke around until the others arrive.” Metatron gives Castiel a curt nod, then strides over to the living room and makes a beeline for Castiel’s bookshelf.

“Is that the one you…” Charlie whispers, sliding up beside him.

“That’s him,” Castiel sighs as Metatron crouches down to pull a philosophy paperback from the bottom shelf. “The one I had to console over an _eight-five_ on the last test.”

Charlie nods and give him a pat on the shoulder. “Good luck with that,” she says brightly before scurrying off towards the kitchen.

 _I’m going to need it_ , Castiel thinks as he watches Metatron poke through a photo album he had sworn he hid away.

By seven-thirty, Castiel finds himself actually enjoying the get-together Charlie planned. Metatron got his busted old record player to work, and the small apartment is now filled with the sounds of laughter, chatting, and classic rock. Fifteen or so of his students had shown up, and nearly all of them had brought dates. When Castiel emerges after a quick bathroom break, he sees Kevin chatting with a girl from a different class in the hallway. As he passes, Castiel peers down at Kevin’s glass and inhales. He frowns.

He finds Charlie chatting with a dark-haired woman in the kitchen, a glass of her own clutched in her hand with something bright sloshing against the sides.

“Cas, hey, you’ve met Dorothy before, right?” Charlie asks, smiling at the other woman. “She teaches English, so not too far from your own department.”

“Nice to meet you,” Castiel says, shaking the woman’s hand. Dorothy dips her head in greeting.

“Nice to meet Charlie’s infamous roommate at last.”

Castiel frowns but decides to ignore it for now. _Infamous?_ He shakes his head, remembering what he was going to ask. “Charlie, can I talk with you for a sec?” he says. When Charlie nods, he pulls her off to the side and asks in a low hiss, “Did you give my students _alcohol_ , Charlie?”

Charlie takes a sip from her glass, her eyes darting away. “Did I?”

“ _Charlie_.”

“Ok, ok, grumpy, I _may_ have purchased a few bottles of Malibu to go with the fruit punch and sprite.”

Castiel groans and rakes a hand through his hair. “Charlie, these kids are nearly all underage. What am I going to do if the school finds out I supplied my classes with free booze?”

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Relax man. You wanted to be the cool professor, right? Then be cool! I’m sure everything will be fine, and if it’s not, you have me to blame. K?” She says, before tipping back her cup and draining the fruity drink. “Anyway, someone’s at the door.”

“What?” Castiel glances over his shoulder, and when he turns back around, Charlie’s disappeared.

Castiel sighs and opens the door. Immediately, his throat seems to close up. “Dean,” he says in a strangled voice before clearing it. He takes in Dean’s leather jacket and lavender flannel, his light brown hair slightly less messy than usual. “And…” he says, eyes sliding to the girl beside him.

“Jo,” the pretty blonde says cheerfully, sticking out her hand. Castiel shakes it. His own hand feels clumsy and numb, but he forces out a smile anyway.

“Nice to meet you, Jo,” he says lightly. “Come in, it must be chilly out there.”

Dean meets his eyes as he steps inside, and Castiel almost imagines that they shine a little brighter. Almost.

“So, uh, there’s plenty of food and drink scattered about,” Castiel says, gesturing to the apartment. A few students wave at the newcomers. “Help yourself to whatever you’d like. There’s even some rum, if you’re interested.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Dean says as Jo steps away to chat with another girl. When she’s gone, Dean turns to Castiel and says with a grin, “Rum, hey? Didn’t expect you to throw a real party.”

Castiel blushes and looks away. “It was Professor Bradbury’s idea, not mine.”

Dean shrugs. “Guess I’ll have to thank her myself, then.”

“I suppose so.” Castiel looks back at Dean, but his attention’s drawn to Jo in the living room. He considers stepping away. Dean probably doesn’t want to hang out with his professor all night. It’s not like they're friends, or like Castiel’s some pretty blonde girl Dean’s own age, or like Dean even _thinks_ of Castiel as anything but…

“You want anything?”

Castiel snaps back to reality and realizes they’ve drifted over to the kitchen counter. He eyes the full glass in Dean’s hand, then the other wrapped around the neck of the Malibu bottle.

“Oh, I shouldn’t,” Castiel says, mouth twisting into a grimace.

Dean catches his eye, and this time Castiel can’t ignore the wicked glint in those emerald orbs. “Aw, come on, Professor,” he says playfully, giving the bottle a little shake. “It’s homecoming, right? Time to let loose a bit, even professors.”

“All right then,” Castiel says warily. “But only a small amount.” He watches Dean’s careful hands tip in a shot-worth of the rum and fill the rest with fruit punch.

“Cheers,” Dean says, clinking his glass against Castiel’s.

“Cheers.” Castiel takes a small sip, smacking his lips at the taste. Despite being nearly thirty, alcohol was still too strong for him, even with all the sugar to mask its flavor. He takes another drink, then eyes Jo coming up to them from the other room. “I think you need to pour your date a drink, too,” he says quietly.

Dean turns. “Hey, date,” he quirks, grinning as Jo sidles up.

“Ha, ha,” Jo says, reaching past Dean to grab the sprite. “You are _still_ not funny. How is that even possible?” she asks, elbowing him aside to reach the glasses. “He’s not funny, is he, Professor Novak?”

“What? Oh,” Castiel stammers, suddenly _very_ aware that he’s just been awkwardly watching their exchange. He takes a gulp before answering. “Dean is reasonably humorous.”

“Ha! Hear that?” Dean exclaims.

Jo shakes her head fondly. “Hear what?” she replies, turning and heading back to the living room.

“We’re not a couple, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Dean says, leaning casually against the countertop.

“I wasn’t—”

“Well, good,” Dean says, cutting him off. “Jo can’t stand when people mistake us for a couple…though the little sister question probably bugs her more. Our parents were close,” he says, when Castiel doesn’t say anything. “She’s at the college now. Premed, if her grades stay where they are.”

Castiel nods as Dean falls quiet. He _had_ been wondering ever since Dean’s email about his date, and now…well now Castiel is having a real hard time ignoring the tingling in his stomach. Castiel looks down at the cherry-red liquid in his glass. _It’s probably just the rum_ , he decides.

“Well, I probably shouldn’t abandon my plus one for too long,” Dean says, straightening up. “Date or not, it’s a dick move.”

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel says with a soft smile.

“I’ll catch you later, Professor. It was nice talking with you outside of…you know.”

Castiel watches Dean slide back through the crowd. He stands there for a moment longer, just watching Dean light up the room as Jo introduces him to some other students, eyes flashing and lips stretched into a warm smile. Dean looks happier than Castiel’s ever seen him, and fortunately there’s not a bruise or cut in sight.

 

* * *

 

 

“You sure you don’t mind cleaning up?” Charlie asks.

Castiel looks between her and the English professor, Dorothy. He can’t help but smile at the excitement barely contained behind Charlie’s eyes. “Not at all,” he assures her. “After all, you did all the setup and planning. It’s the least I can do.”

Charlie grins and gives him a goodbye hug. Castiel shakes Dorothy’s hand, then watches the two head down the stairs hand-in-hand before shutting the door.

Castiel says goodnight to a few more lingering students, eyeing them cautiously to make sure they’re sober enough to make it home. Fortunately, Charlie didn’t purchase too much alcohol, and everyone seems fine, if a little tipsy.

As Castiel lifts the needle off the record player, he hears the balcony door slide open, then turns to see Jo, Dean, and Kevin step back into the apartment’s warmth.

“Is the party over already?” Kevin asks sadly, looking around the messy apartment.

“Afraid so,” Castiel says, piling up paper plates left on the coffee table. He bites back a smile, glad to see Kevin finally making some friends. Maybe he’ll even start working with Dean during class.

Dean says something quietly to Jo, then kisses her cheek. “You two go catch that Alpha Beta party,” he says, clapping Kevin on the shoulder. “I need to ask Professor Novak about an assignment.”

Castiel throws out the plates, hovering by the trashcan for until the door shuts behind them. He hears Dean’s footsteps travel back towards the kitchen, and Castiel moves to the sink to start washing some of the many dishes collected throughout the evening.

Dean’s footsteps fall silent.

“Is it the Exodus worksheet?” Castiel asks, scrubbing at a bowl he thinks contained humus. All that’s left is something crusted and orange.

“What?”

“The assignment you wanted to ask me about,” Castiel says. He swears he can hear his heart hammering above the water. “I’ve already gotten a few questions tonight on the last part.”

The footsteps grow louder until Castiel can _feel_ the heat radiating off Dean’s body. Castiel’s back stiffens. He doesn’t look up from the sink.

“No, it wasn’t that.” Dean’s hand enters Castiel’s field of vision, pressing down on the handle to shut off the water. “I want to show you something.”

Castiel blinks at his soapy hands, then slowly wipes them against his jeans. There’s no way Dean can’t hear his heartbeat now. “Ok,” he says, tying to sound collected. He looks up and meets Dean’s eyes before breaking away. “What is it?”

Dean gives Castiel a faint smile before turning. Castiel follows him over to the balcony door. Dean pulls at the handle and steps into the chilly night. Castiel takes a deep breath, then follows, shutting the door softly behind them.

Dean has his body pressed against the metal railing, his hands gripping the top, his eyes scanning the town below. “Do you see that?” Dean asks quietly as Castiel steps up beside him. He points towards a clump of building in the distance.

“Yes,” Castiel replies. His eyes wander over the school’s campus, over the paths nestled between grassy fields, over the stately brick buildings and squatting dormitories.

“And that?” Dean asks, pointer finger sliding to the right.

“Is that the local middle school?”

Dean nods. A smile pulls at his full lips. “That’s were Sammy is now. Well not _right now_ , now, but that’s where I drop him off and pick him up every day. I went there too. Had to walk though. Got real crappy in the winter.”

Castiel looks at Dean, at the memories washing over his features. “I’m sorry about that,” he says quietly.

Dean shrugs. “It was only two years.” His hand moves again, this time a little north. “And way back there,” he says, voice dropping to a low whisper, “is where the house is.”

Castiel squints, but all he can make out are the yellow streetlamps blinking in the dark. “I didn’t know you lived so close to the college.”

Dean’s head finally turns, and he meets Castiel’s eyes for a second before returning to the view. “Hard not to notice when you’re basically in its shadow all your life,” Dean mutters. After a minute, Dean says quietly, “You asked me once why I faked attending the school.”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say, not when Dean is opening up to him for the first time. So he nods, not pressing, not questioning, just waiting for Dean to continue.

“I tried to get in, I really did,” Dean says. Castiel watches him fiddle with his sleeve where the leather reaches too far past his wrist. “I had a plan all set up, but before I knew it, the deadline was over.”

“Why is that?” Castiel asks gently.

Dean snorts. “Have you ever tried applying for college, taking care of your kid brother, going to school, and working near enough to full time fixing up busted old cars?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I don’t recommend it,” Dean says, shaking his head. “Dad didn’t give a shit, though. He just expected me to get it done, and he wasn’t about to take no for an answer.” Dean’s fingers move to his jaw, prodding lightly, before dropping back down. “Of course I did the stupidest goddman thing and told him I got in, anyway. Told him I got a free ride and everything.” Dean looks down, and in the dark, Castiel can see the pale moonlight reflected off his glinting eyes.

Without thinking, Castiel covers Dean’s hand with his own. Maybe it’s reflexes or recklessness or whatever, but he can’t just stand there, doing nothing, leaving Dean alone in his head. Dean’s fingers jolt at first, then relax against Castiel’s touch. Dean raises his eyes.

“What am I going to do when he finds out?” Dean asks, his voice broken, trying to conceal the hurt in his words. “I can’t lose Sammy, I just can’t…” He searches Castiel’s eyes, looking for an answer Castiel doesn’t know how to give. Memories of his own family flash in his head, of his father throwing Gabe out of the house the summer Castiel turned twelve, of his mother confronting Castiel during Christmas dinner, of wandering through the snow-covered streets until Charlie found him half-frozen on a park bench.

Castiel feels his body shift closer, his own heat pressing into Dean’s. His hand moves to Dean’s cheek where a single tear has escaped, streaking down Dean’s skin. Castiel brushes it away with his thumb, savoring the rough skin of his jaw, the soft corner of his mouth.

Dean’s breathing hitches. Castiel leans in.

The kiss is soft and wet and _good_ , but after a second, Castiel’s brain snaps back into the real world. A wave of self-loathing surges through Castiel’s stomach and he jerks backward, bumping into the cold railing, hand falling empty to his side.

“Professor?” Dean asks, but it’s like his voice is drifting through a wall, muffled and distorted, like a bad radio. “I didn’t mean—”

“Stop,” Castiel says, more sharply than he intended. “You did nothing, Dean….and I think it’s time to go home,” Castiel says, too ashamed to even meet Dean’s eyes. “You don’t want your father to wonder where you are.”

Dean stares at him, and in the corner of his eye, Castiel can make out the confusion in Dean’s eyes. “Cas,” Dean croaks, but Castiel holds up a hand.

“Go home, Dean,” he says curtly. “Just go.”

Dean watches him for a few moments before sliding open the glass door. He walks quickly down the length of the apartment. The front door slams behind him. Maybe that’s just in Castiel’s head.

Castiel grips tight to the railing, keeping himself afloat as he stares out at the town, at the life Dean chose to share with him. God, he doesn’t know what to think or feel or do right now. The only thing he’s certain of is how fucked up it was to kiss Dean, and how he won’t allow it to happen again.


	5. Five

Castiel spends the weekend in some sort of fog. Like he’s pushing through cloud, reaching his hands out to find land, but only finding them wet and cold and numb. He would chalk it up to a head cold, if he didn’t know the real reason he feels so shitty.

When he hears Charlie sneak back into the apartment early Saturday morning, Castiel rolls over in his bed to face the wall instead of the door, just in case Charlie was going to check in. Sure enough, he hears her muffled footsteps approach, hears the door creak open before softly closing once again when she thinks he is still asleep.

Castiel closes his eyes, praying for sleep he knows in his gut won’t come. Not today, not after a night of twisting in his sheets, staring up at the ceiling for some kind of answer. Forgiveness, even if he doesn’t deserve it. Castiel had done the one thing all those preachers and politicians and self-righteous family members all warned about, hadn’t he? Corrupted some innocent boy, kissing Dean when he had no right to, wanting to feel connected to another human for just one second before reality kicked in and slammed on the brakes, cracking Castiel’s forehead against the steering wheel.

As he looks into the blackness of his heavy eyelids, Castiel can’t help but replay the moment on the balcony, over and over again until he’s not even sure what’s real and what his brain is conjuring up after a night of no sleep and unrelenting anxiety. Dean’s face swims through the dark, coating his eyes like a film he can’t wipe away. Sometimes Castiel imagines—no, _hopes_ —that it was disappointment in Dean’s eyes when Castiel pulled away from the kiss, but the nagging voice in the back of his head is quick to point out that it could only have been disgust, hurt, betrayal.

A few hours later Charlie cracks open his bedroom door, and this time Castiel forces himself to roll over, rub his eyes sleepily, and ask what time it is. Charlie laughs, saying it’s nearly noon, that he must have had too much of that rum last night. Castiel agrees, the truth stuck deep in his throat.

He spends the day moving like a ghost throughout the apartment, doing housework, catching up on grading, eating so Charlie doesn’t have any cause to worry. His stomach doesn’t agree to the plan, though, and he only manages to get down a peanut butter sandwich. When Charlie slips back out that evening to attend some pottery class with Dorothy, Castiel rolls back into the comfort of his bed, sighing at how good it feels to be enveloped in something soft and warm, even though he doesn’t deserve it. Every time Castiel wonders if he’s overreacting, the cold voice in his head reappears.

_Disgust, hurt, betrayal, that’s what was on Dean’s face after you forced yourself on him. You took advantage of a student. A boy. What kind of person does that?_

At some point that night while he’s attempting to plan out a lesson, his phone vibrates on the nightstand. Castiel reaches for it, holding the screen up to his eyes.

“Great timing,” Castiel says, when he reads the name. Naomi Novak. Of course the universe would have his mother call _now_ , after she hasn’t picked up the phone in months. After a moment of hesitation, Castiel slides his thumb across the red button and tosses the phone to the other side of the bed. Screw the consequences, Naomi will live without hearing from her black sheep of a son for a little while longer.

 

* * *

 

 

When Castiel walks into class on Monday, he’s surprised at how full the classroom is. Then he glances at the clock. _Shit._ Castiel quickly reaches his podium, ignoring the way his students watch him like wide-eyed owls.

“Sorry I’m late,” Castiel says, pulling folders out of his satchel. “Professors are just like you sometimes,” he says, head lifting. Castiel’s eyes widen. The folder drops from his hand. Castiel ignores it as it slides to the floor. “Shit.”

This time, the curse word fails to remain safely inside his head. Castiel’s eyes are locked with a pair of brilliant green eyes, staring up at him from the second row.

Castiel hears laughter wash over the class like a wave. The jocks in the back are particularly loud, and when Castiel’s eyes flick over to them, he catches Alastair mimicking his moment of stupidity to his friends, mouthing the word _shit_ with his jaw slack and his eyes crossed.

He swallows, and after picking up the file, Castiel turns his back on the class to scrawl today’s reading pages on the chalkboard. The piece of chalk wobbles in his fingers, so he takes a deep breath, trying to refocus.

“Turn to page 464 in your Old Testament,” Castiel says, before turning around and checking his notes. “Today we will be discussing…” A lump forms in his throat. “The Song of Solomon,” he forces out.

The class wordlessly turns to the page, unaware of anything. Of course they’re unaware …they haven’t studied this particular section of the bible before. They don’t know that as soon as Castiel read the title of today’s lecture, his heart skipped a beat and the memory of the balcony sent a jolt through his entire body.

Because _of course_ The Song of Solomon is about someone longing for their lover. Castiel would curse out loud again, if he wasn’t so embarrassed from the first time today.

Castiel directs his class to read over it once, then asks in his calmest, most professor-y voice, for any first reactions to the poems. He keeps his eyes _firmly_ away from the front row while they read.

Metatron’s hand shoots into the air. Castiel sighs, but nods anyway. “Yes, Metatron?”

“Well, it’s obviously an allegory for the relationship between God and the Church,” the wiry student says, gesturing at the page. “It demonstrates the longing of the Christian Church for their savior, God.”

 “Thank you, Metatron. And you are correct, that is one of the more metaphorical interpretations discussed by theologists. Anyone else get something different?” he asks, ignoring the way Metatron’s proud smile slips from his face.  

For a moment, no one responds. Then, from the spot right in front of Castiel, a hand raises halfway into the air, fingers curled slightly as if they’re unsure if they want to be noticed. Castiel’s eyes sweep the room, then with his lips drawn together, he nods. “Dean,” says, throat tight.

“I, uh, took it more literally I guess,” Dean says. “I read it as a conversation between two lovers, some maiden and a guy. The chick is longing for her lover—longing to kiss him, touch him, but she can’t.” His eyes lift from the book spread out on his desk, catching Castiel watching him. “Not sure if that’s right, but it’s what I understood,” he says, more quietly so that only Castiel and the students nearby can hear.

_Disgust, hurt, betrayal._

Castiel blinks and break away, turning to the chalkboard. He can feel his neck burn hot beneath his crisp shirt collar, can feel the way his hand shakes against the chalk. “Thank you, Dean,” he says, drawing out a messy t-chart. Castiel writes “Metaphorical” on the top of one line and “Literal” on the other. “These are our two frameworks for reading the text today,” he says, wiping his hands to clean them of the white dust. He turns back around. “Let’s dive right in,” he says, praying no one notices the way Dean’s eyes pierce into his skull. He prays even more that they don’t notice Castiel dying to stare right back.

           

* * *

 

 

Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever been happier to hear the sounds of notebooks being shoved into backpacks. He breathes out a heavy sigh, reminds the class to do the reading, and packs up his own bag.

A stretch of red and brown flannel approaches, two roughed-up hands pressing their fingertips lightly to his desk. Castiel eyes the cuts lining the knuckles, and he forces himself to look up. He lets out a small breath of relief that up-close Dean’s new injuries don’t reach his face like they once did. He _hated_ to see Dean’s jaw bruised, his forehead adorned with a fresh wound. All he had wanted to do was kiss the hurt away…

“Can I help you?” he asks, pushing the impure thoughts away, burying them deep, begging that they stay down once and for all.

"I wanted to talk with you,” Dean says quietly, glancing to either side. “About…you know.”

Castiel finishes packing up and hoists his satchel onto his shoulder by the thick leather strap. “I have a meeting right now, excuse me,” he says, moving towards the door. Dean follows.

“Maybe later then, at your office? Or we could grab frappes.”

Castiel slows as he reaches the doorway. “I have to leave campus early today,” he mutters, hoisting his bag up higher. “I can’t, Dean.” He considers looking back at Dean, then sets his eyes firmly ahead. With that he walks out of the classroom, leaving Dean frozen by the door.

He reaches the conference room across the quad in record time, not even realizing until he drops into a chair that at least three students had jumped out of his path on the way over to keep from getting bulldozed.

Castiel heaves his bag to the table, pulling out his laptop and notepad. What was this meeting for…a plan for more crossover classes between English and Religion? Making sure all the new professors aren’t drowning in grading papers? He’s pretty sure it’s the latter, but at the moment, Castiel couldn’t care less. His brain is frozen, stuck between wanting to forget all about a certain green-eyed student and giving in, giving up, becoming the abomination his mother and father and priests and teachers always said he was.

Castiel’s head is so screwed up that he doesn’t even notice when a tall, older man walks in and plops into the chair across the table.

“You’re an early bird too?”

Castiel looks up and frowns. “I’m sorry?”

The man gestures to the clock. “Meeting doesn’t start for another twenty minutes.”

“Oh.” Castiel squints at the clock, realizing he’s already been sitting here for over half an hour, trapped in his head.

The man laughs a warm, rumbling laugh. “So this really is a meeting for new professors, huh?” The man stands up and stretches a hand across the table. “Rufus Turner, History Professor. Also somehow in charge of this meeting, though I don’t know why any of them higher-ups wanted me to do it.”

Castiel shakes his hand. “Castiel Novak, Religious Studies,” he says, sitting back down. “New, but you already know that.”

 Rufus smiles. “Now you haven’t seen any ghosts recently, have you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Ghosts,” Rufus says casually, nodding in Castiel’s direction. “Because man, you sure look like you’ve seen one. Pale as a sheet.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, feeling stupid for saying it for the second time to this guy. _Guess I’m all about repeating shit today_ , he thinks bitterly. “No, I’m just…under some pressure right now.”

Rufus nods knowingly. “Guess it’s a good thing I’m here to catch you young’uns up on all that work management crap,” he says, patting a stack of papers in front of him. “Because if you’re anyone to judge off of, you guys sure do need it.”

 

* * *

 

 

After the meeting, Castiel waits outside the room for Charlie to finish chatting with another Comp Sci professor. He nods at Rufus as the man passes by. He likes the man, rough around the edges as he was. He reminded Castiel that it wasn’t just polished, put-together people the college hired, even if most weren’t as messed up as Castiel was.

“Ready to go?” he asks when Charlie emerges, trying to sound cheerful.

“ _Am_ I,” Charlie says, shrugging on her coat. “Gosh, it’s only Monday and I already feel like curling up in a ball on the floor.”

Castiel smiles. “You’re not the only one,” he says under his breath.

As they walk along the path towards town, Castiel catches Charlie looking up at him.

“What?” he asks when she does it a fourth time.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Charlie,” he warns.

“It’s nothing, really,” she says, failing to starve off the grin spreading across her face. “Only I am just _dying_ to know who it is.”

His heart jumps into his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Charlie gives his arm a light shove. “Come on, Cas. I’ve known you how long? Ten years? I know that look.”

Castiel forces his face to remain slack. “Look?” he huffs, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets, curling his body away from the breeze running through campus. He’ll need to start wearing his old trench coat soon. “I don’t have a look.”

Charlie laughs. “If you say so,” she says in a sing-song voice before looping her arm through Castiel’s to mooch off his body heat. “But I’ll have you know that I am an expert in pining, _especially_ the gay variety.”

He can’t help but smile at that. Even when they were both baby-faced kids in college, Charlie always knew how to brighten people’s day. “I’ve noticed that your pinning for a certain English professor has disappeared over the past few days,” Castiel says as they cross the street. He glances down at Charlie to see a blush coloring her pale cheeks.

“We may have hooked up.”

“Only once?”

Charlie bites her lip. “A little more than that,” she says, smiling through her words. “I’ll tell you all the details over coffee, how does that sound?” she asks, jerking her head towards a Starbucks across the street.

Castiel nods in agreement, happy to have Charlie take his mind off the Dean situation. He just has to be sure not to order a certain frozen treat off the menu, and everything would feel normal, at least for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A less plot-heavy chapter, but I hope you guys enjoyed getting more into Castiel's head. Another thing...does anyone have thoughts on a chapter or more from Dean's perspective, or do you like it just from Castiel's? 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!


	6. Six

            Castiel feels guilty. He’s felt that way since a month ago when he stupidly, stupidly kissed Dean Winchester on his balcony, but now the guilt feels different. Not in heaviness—everyday feels like he was strung up to an anchor and thrown into the sea—but in the _type_ of heaviness. Instead of feeling guilty for what he did, he now feels guilt for what he’s doing: ignoring Dean, pushing him away, brushing past him in the doorway after class, pretending he doesn’t see the way Dean stares at him during lectures, hurt and frustrated and confused. At first he thought keeping distant would sew the stitches back together. Now it seemed to be driving them further apart.

            The most mature course of action would be to suck it up and act like the goddamn professor this college hired him to be. But then again, they didn’t hire him to kiss his students.

            So Castiel does nothing. Well, nothing more than pretending the kiss never happened. He just hopes that Dean is still working on his applications, that he didn’t put Dean off from getting the official degree he deserves. Dean wouldn’t stop trying just because of Castiel, would he? Castiel doesn’t think so. Dean still goes to his other classes, from what he can tell by seeing him on campus going to and from different buildings.

            Castiel hugs his arms tighter to his body as he walks down the street, even despite his old trenchcoat he finally pulled out of boxes piled up in his closet. His feet carry him towards the grocery store by the school, a route that, unfortunately, took him right past the row of frat houses along the edge of campus. At 9 PM on a Saturday the frats are still quiet, though Castiel knows the street will look and sound completely different in an hour. He had considered driving to the store, but the cool air seemed like a good idea a as a way to clear his head. After all, he only needed to pick up bread and eggs, and he figured it wasn’t worth the gas.

            Once he walks the rest of the mile to the store, Castiel quickly grabs what he needs and heads towards the checkout line, smiling pleasantly when he approaches the cashier, a girl in his theology class.

            “Meg, isn’t it?” he asks as the pale, dark-haired girl scans his items.

            “Howdy, Professor Novak,” she replies, smiling up at him. “How’s it going tonight?”

            “Same as always,” he says, shrugging. Meg puts his packages in a plastic bag while Castiel hands her a twenty.

            “Glad to hear it. You uh…grade my theology paper yet?” she asks, looking up from her register.

            “Not yet,” he says, trying not to smile at Meg’s disappointment. The girl is always catching Castiel after class trying to convince him for extra credit or extensions.

            “Well, have a good night professor,” Meg sighs. Castiel says goodbye and tucks his wallet back inside his jeans. Meg gives him a halfhearted wave as he heads back into the chilly night.

            Castiel’s hasn’t even turned onto frat row when he hears the low pounding base pulsing out from the houses. He shakes his head, wondering how the campus police just let the parties happen without any interference.

            Just as he rounds the corner, Castiel jumps out of the way of a laughing girl in a devil costume followed by four angels running after her. He whips around to see the girl in the lead nearly stumble into the sidewalk, then shouts “Use the crosswalk!” to their sequined, glittery backs. Castiel grimaces when they streak across the street without even watching for oncoming traffic.

            The closer Castiel gets, the less sober the party-goers seem. He passes the first frat house, frowning at two guys in polos passing a blunt back and forth while a stream of girls enter through the front door. One of the guys waves and asks if he wants a hit, which Castiel politely declines. The next house appears to be the source of the devil and angles. Some sort of Christian pop music blasts from the open windows, and from what Castiel can see, a sea of students dressed in red and white writhe together in the most unholy way Castiel can imagine. He quickly averts his eyes when a girl wearing only silky white feathers blows him a kiss from her spot leaning out of a second-story window.

            Castiel quickens his pace, not feeling particularly excited about being caught in front of a bunch of intoxicated college students just in case the police decided tonight was a good night to roll by. As he follows the slight bend in the road, he hears shouts coming from the back of one of the frat houses. He stops, tilting his head.

            Another shout. It could just be some drunk guy goofing off.

            The guy shouts again, then Castiel hears a low groan.

            Castiel’s not the biggest or strongest guy in the world, but he can’t just keep walking with his eggs and bread like nothing’s going on. He’s a professor, after all. He’s supposed to keep the students here safe.

            Setting his jaw in a hard line, Castiel moves in the direction of the noise, wincing as another groan follows a shout, then what sounds suspiciously like a foot or fist slamming against bone. He trails his fingers against the house’s rough brick wall, then peers around the corner. It’s pretty dark, but Castiel can clearly make out three guys standing over a fourth. The skinniest of the three has his foot on the victim’s chest, pinning him down. With their backs turned and only a streetlight casting a dim yellow pool on the grass, he can’t really tell who they are. Castiel creeps closer, then freezes when he recognizes the face of the guy on the ground.

            “Dean?” he breathes out. The grocery bag slips from his hand.

“Hey, you!” Castiel shouts, storming towards the group, not caring that he’s defenseless, not even thinking that this is probably one of the stupidest things he’s done. The three freeze, startled. “Yeah, I’m talking to you, assholes!” Castiel growls. “You’ll run if you know what’s good for you!” he hears himself say recklessly before breaking into run.

            The skinny one looks to the others, then nods. They flee, sprinting across the lawn behind the frats towards the woods. Castiel stares at their retreating forms, breathing hard, before a low moan drags his eyes to the ground.

            “Oh my God, Dean,” Castiel says, his knees slamming into the grass by Dean’s head. He takes in the blood caking one side of Dean’s face, mud coating the other where it was pressed into the dirt. Dean’s knees are drawn inwards, his spine curled in a fetal position.

            “Oh hey Professor,” Dean croaks in a slurred voice, eyes rolling back to watch Castiel. “You broke up my fight,” he forces out, that ever-present hint of mischief in his voice. “I was winning, couldn’t ya tell?” He tries to sit up, wincing, before Castiel gently pushes him back down.

            “Don’t move,” he says, trying to hide the fear creeping into his voice. “I’m calling the police, they’ll know what to do.”

            Dean’s hand darts out, catching Castiel’s wrist before he can reach for his phone. “No,” Dean says, squeezing his eyes shut. His head falls back into the dirt. “No police.”

            Castiel frowns. “Dean, I can’t just do nothing. Let me take you to the hospital.”

            “I’ll be fine. Don’t need no damn medical bills,” Dean mutters, trying to sit up for a second time. Castiel moves to push him back down, but Dean’s glare keeps him still. Even beat-up, Dean is intimidating. “Besides, I’ll only get busted for drinking, damn cops.”

            Sitting up, Dean’s injuries look even worse. Castiel eyes his black eye and split lip, the blood running down a gash on his forehead, some dried, some shiny in the glow of the streetlamp. Castiel doesn’t want to think about what else is bruised or broken. “I’ll take you home, then.”

            “No can do,” Dean mumbles, heavy eyelids falling as he blinks. “Pops brought the liquor store home for the night.”            

            “He’ll want to know you’re safe, Dean—”

            “I said _no_.”

            Castiel bites his lip and rakes a hand through his hair. “You can’t just expect me to leave you here, Dean.”

            “Can’t I?”

            Castiel’s eyes soften. For a moment he says nothing, listening to Dean’s ragged breathing, trying not break at the sight of the hurt in those green eyes. “I’m taking you to the apartment, then.”

            “Fine, man, if you’re gonna get all fussy about it.”

            Castiel leans over and takes Dean’s arm, helping him to his feet. Dean hisses out a curse as he takes his first step, breathing hard. Castiel leads him towards the sidewalk with a steady hand on his back. In the dark or maybe just their hazy states, no one on the street seems to notice anything is amiss.  

            “Did you walk here?” Castiel asks.

            Dean shakes his head, wincing at the movement. “Drove. Baby’s across the street.”

            They cross at the crosswalk towards the big black Impala that must be Baby. “Were you going to drive home intoxicated?” Castiel asks, anger tainting his voice despite himself.

            Dean huffs. “Wasn’t planning on getting drunk.”

            Castiel wants to ask what he _was_ planning on doing tonight. He wants to ask who those other guys were, what their names are so he can see them behind bars, or at least expelled from the college. Castiel glances at Dean, noticing how tired he looks behind all the blood and dirt and alcohol and pain. He says nothing, just asks for Dean’s keys and helps him into the car.

 

* * *

 

 

            The entire ride there, Dean says nothing. Whenever Castiel opens his mouth, he glances at the boy sitting in the passenger seat, his forehead resting against the cool glass window, his eyes closed, or maybe just averted. As Castiel carefully guides the car down the quiet streets towards his part of town, he tries not to notice how _Dean_ Baby is. His fingers curl around the steering wheel, pressing into the grooves left in the soft leather like fingerprints. Every time he breathes in, the unmistakable scent of motor oil and mint and earth fills his nose. It was the same scent that flooded his senses that night on the balcony. Castiel smiles.

            When Castiel pulls up in front of his apartment complex, Dean slowly lifts his head from the window and stares up at the tall building.

            “I’m sorry, Dean, but there’s no elevator,” Castiel says sheepishly, wishing that he could have lived anywhere else but here, stuck up on the fourth floor.

            Dean nods. “S’ok.”

            Castiel can tell he’s holding back grunts of pain the entire trip up the stairs.

            When they finally reach Castiel’s door, Dean’s face is pale beneath the blood and grime. He stands in the foyer as Castiel locks the door behind them, waiting for Castiel to tell him what to do.

            “There’s, uh, a shower down that way,” Castiel says, wincing at how stiff and awkward he sounds. “There’s products and clean towels in the cabinet.” When Dean raises a brow, Castiel adds, “Professor Bradbury’s gone until tomorrow, so you won’t need to worry about her.”

            Dean nods. He sways a bit on his feet.

            Castiel swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “Do you need help with…”

            “I’m ok. Just need to rinse off for now,” Dean says, fingers clutching the cuff of his leather jacket.

            “Right.” Castiel leads Dean down the hallway. “I’ll get you something clean to put on. Just leave your clothes on the floor to get tomorrow,” he says, darting into his bedroom to grab a pair of loose black sweatpants and an old t-shirt as Dean lingers by the bathroom door. Dean accepts them with a nod. Castiel watches him walk stiffly into the room, not even realizing he’s just been standing there until he hears the shower turn on.

            As Dean showers, Castiel sits on the edge of his bed and stares at the wall, thinking. This was obviously the right thing to do—it’s not like he could just _leave_ Dean there. Anyone would have done it. Anyone decent, anyway.

 _Not everyone would get butterflies at the sound of his shower turning on_ , the voice in Castiel’s head whispers. _Not everyone would get all tingly at the thought of the student they kissed sleeping in his bed._

            “Shut up,” Castiel growls at the wall. He sighs.

            Castiel quickly strips out of his jeans and sweater, pulling on sweatpants and a t-shirt of his own. He usually opts to sleep in just his boxers, but Castiel figures that would only look worse in Dean’s eyes. God’s too.

            So he’s not just _waiting_ for Dean to get out of the shower, Castiel reheats some leftover pizza in the kitchen. He standing by the island counter, munching on the greasy slice when the water shuts off. After a few minutes, Dean pads his bare feet down the hallway.

            Castiel can’t help that his eyes widen when Dean emerges—the gash on his forehead is worse than he originally thought, stretching nearly from Dean’s ear to his temple. His right eye is a mess of tender, blackish-purple skin, and his lip is split in the right-hand corner, leaving a red, swollen lump. Without a word, Castiel heads to the sink, filling up a glass of cold water. He places it on the counter in front of Dean alongside a piece of pizza, then reaches into the cabinet by the stove, pulling out a first aid kit.

            “Sit,” Castiel commands, sliding out one of the bar stools.

            Too tired to argue, Dean obeys.

            Castiel assess Dean’s injuries with a frown. To get a better look at the gash, Castiel gently grasps Dean’s chin and turns his face towards the light. “You need to see a doctor,” Castiel says in a gruff voice.  

            “I thought you were my doctor.”

            “I’m your professor.” Castiel drops Dean’s face. “Now hydrate. Are you hungry?”

            Dean lets out a weak laugh. “If I eat I’m gonna puke.” He picks up the water instead, letting the cool liquid slide down his throat, wincing when the glass presses against his busted lip.

            Castiel nods. Fair enough. He rummages through the kit, pulling out a tube of Neosporin, cleaning solution, gauze, and a box of Band-Aids. “These are only a temporary fix, Dean,” he reminds him, catching Dean’s eyes. “Ok? You need to see a doctor tomorrow.”

            “Whatever you say, Professor,” Dean mumbles. He flinches when Castiel’s fingers dab a wet piece of gauze against the gash.

            Castiel bites back a smile. He works on the gash first, cleaning up the remains of the blood and securing the largest Band-Aide he owns to the boy’s face. Since there’s not much he can do about the eye, Castiel moves on to the lip.

            “Keep still,” Castiel murmurs when Dean flinches at the gauze against his swollen lip.

            “That hurts,” Dean mutters out the other side of his mouth.

            Castiel keeps his eyes focused on Dean’s wound. “You shouldn’t get into fights, then,” he says quietly.

            “I wasn’t trying to,” Dean says, his eyes following Castiel’s hand as he wets a fresh piece of gauze.

            “What then?” Castiel again grips Dean’s chin, turning it towards so he can get a better look. He ignores the heat spreading from Dean’s skin into his fingertips. His stomach flips at Dean’s mouth so close to his own, then again at how sick he is for his body to react like that.

            “I guess those jackasses just didn’t like the look of me,” Dean says, his voice muffled against the gauze. “We were all pretty fucked up.”

            Castiel’s jaw clenches. There had to be more going on, but he decides to wait until Dean tells him instead. _If he ever speaks to you after you dragged him to your apartment_ , the voice nags in Castiel’s ear. “Did they hurt you anywhere else?” he asks.

            Dean’s cheeks flush. “Not much.” Castiel gives him his most professor-done-with-your-bullshit look, and Dean swallows. “I’m not bleeding or nothing, but can you just take a look at something?” he asks, averting Castiel’s eyes.

            “Of course, Dean.”

            Dean swallows again, then lifts up the edge of his shirt. “It ain’t bad, right?”

            Castiel forces himself to look at Dean’s torso. A swell of dark bruises stretches along his ribs. His toned stomach flutters, hard muscles rippling beneath the skin. Castiel blinks. _Focus._ He steps closer and crouches a bit to get a better look, then gently prods at the tender skin.

            “Son of a bitch,” Dean hisses.

            “I’m sorry,” Castiel says, running his fingers higher to the next rib. He gently applies pressure, but Dean only winces this time. “I only have first aide training, but I don’t believe any are broken, just bruised.”

            Dean nods, satisfied, and lowers his shirt. Castiel returns to Dean’s lip. He has to steady his hands in between getting new pieces of gauze, taking a deep breath every time he looks away.

            “All done,” Castiel says when he’s cleaned up all he can. He doesn’t like the way that gash looks, but he supposes it will do for tonight. As Castiel cleans up the counter, Dean sips at his water, watching.

            “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you home?” he asks, his back turned as he puts away the first aide kit.

            “If that’s ok,” Dean says quietly. “I mean, if you don’t mind. Professor,” he adds clearing his throat.

            “Of course, Dean,” Castiel says. He stares at Dean, realizing how tired he must be. Castiel had still smelled the liquor on his breath too, and he knew Dean is far from sober. “You can stay in my bed and I’ll take the couch.” Dean begins to protest, but Castiel tells him it’s not up for negotiation, he needs to sleep in a proper bed.

            Castiel gently helps Dean back to his feet. As he leads him down to the bedroom, he can’t ignore the way Dean leans into him ever so slightly, like Castiel’s a comfort.  

            _Don’t be ridiculous_ , Castiel quickly tells himself, grimacing.

            When they make it to the bedroom, Castiel clears out his phone, charger, and a spare pillow and blanket from the closet, carrying them over to the living room couch. When he steps back inside, he finds Dean lowering himself down into the mattress, his head falling back in relief against the pillows.

            Castiel hovers by the door, unsure what to do or say, before clearing his throat and saying in a low voice, “Just let me know when you’re ready to go home tomorrow.” He swallows, glancing one more time at Dean’s already drooping eyelids, before turning back around. He reaches for the light switch and flicks it off.  

            “Castiel. Wait.”

            A shiver runs up Castiel’s spine at the sound of his first name on Dean’s lips. Not Professor, not Professor Novak, not Cas. _Castiel_. “Yes, Dean?” he asks. His voice catches at the end.

            Dean falls quiet. Castiel stands there, rigid, waiting, listening, an overwhelming urge to flee building in his muscles.

            Castiel wonders if this is how rabbits feel, their little hearts beating faster than God intended, pulsing with blood and oxygen and adrenaline, waiting for their veins to explode and their legs to spring and the predator in the shadows to make themself known.

            Dean swallows. The mattress springs groan. His body is ready to run.

            “Castiel,” Dean repeats, so softly he’s sure it’s a figment of his imagination. “Stay. Please.”

            His coils unravel. His heart steadies.

            “Ok,” Castiel says. His throat feels thick, stuck, unusable. His head is screaming at him, but _God_ is he so damn tired of listening. Castiel turns and stares at Dean through the dark, at the slope of his legs beneath the comforter, at the eyes puncturing through the dense blackness of the room. _Ok._

            Castiel moves to the opposite side of the bed. He peels back the comfort and old, worn sheets. He slides in. Castiel lays on his back, his body feeling just like the rabbit’s all over again, blood pounding in his ears. _Can he hear that_? Castiel stares at the ceiling, at the unmoving fan glaring down at him through the dark. His pulse is overwhelming, his body pumping blood into every corner of his body, every corner of the room.

            The comforter rustles, and he feels the mattress shift as Dean rolls his weight closer towards the center of the bed. Cool fingertips brush down Castiel’s forearm, finding a path down his burning skin until they fall still, circling Castiel’s wrist.

            The touch is soft and tentative and quiet and shy. Barely anything, but _there._

            His heartbeat falls away, receding back into his own body, falling back into place within his chest. Castiel sighs, and slowly, slowly, only the sound of Dean’s steady breathing fills the room.            

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter, but I hope that's ok with you guys! I really enjoyed writing this and I'm excited about where this story is headed...any predictions for what's in store? Anything you're hoping to see?


	7. Seven

            Castiel stares down one of the grocery store aisles, blinking, trying to see past the sputtering fluorescent light above his head. He wonders what he came here to get. 

            _Dean’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, breaths whispering against his neck. The heat of Dean’s body pressed against his own. Sleep keeping Dean carefully at bay._

            Eggs. Bread. That’s what he came here for.

            Castiel follows the speckled tiled floor towards the dairy section. He looks at the rows and rows of eggs in their little plastic cartons, trying to remember which kind Charlie said was the best to buy. He squints. Cage free. Vegetarian. _Sounds about right._ Did he buy the same ones yesterday? He moves on to the bread aisle.

            _Dean’s lips pressed against his collar bone. Dean’s arm draped across his chest, fingers pressed into the worn cotton of his shirt. Sleep finding Castiel for an hour, maybe more, before Dean’s fingers trembled and his breath grew shallow and the arm held on to Castiel like he was the only solid thing afloat at sea._

            Castiel stares at the bread. Bagels, English muffins, white bread and wheat, tiny cakes in blue and white boxes. He chooses a loaf of wheat with little seeds dotting the crust. He takes the two items to the checkout, sees the surprised look on Meg’s face when she scans in his items. She doesn’t say anything though, and for that Castiel is grateful.

            He steps through the automatic doors and takes a breath of the early morning air. Last night replays in his head as he walks down the street.

            The whimpers were the worst, like little gasps of air tainted with a fear Castiel could not see. So he held Dean, smoothed a hand down Dean’s wet face, kept him pressed into the mattress when the shaking got too bad.

            He tries to remember what Dean was saying though the nightmares, but either Dean’s voice was too muffled or he wasn’t making much sense or Castiel had lost the memory some time over the course of the night.

            Castiel had walked to the grocery store this morning, deciding to leave his car parked by the shiny Impala. Walking hadn’t done much for his head last night. Now, the early morning air only reminded him of the warmth seeping off his bed. Off of Dean.

            At seven in the morning, frat row is silent in the eerie, abandoned sort of way. Castiel spots one red high-heel shoe sticking out of the damp grass. He eyes a white, pearly streamer blowing lifelessly in the air as it hangs out a second-story window. As he passes the house where he found Dean last night, Castiel wanders over, hoping that the assholes had left something, maybe an ID. He pokes around the grass for a few minutes, finding nothing but his grocery bag of cracked eggs and bread. He considers taking the bread home, but a sour taste fills his mouth. He doesn’t want to be reminded of what he saw yesterday.

            Dean had two fits of nightmares last night. Castiel had stayed by him through both, not really knowing what to do. Dean wouldn’t wake up. Castiel tries to remember what he did when his little brother Gabe had nightmares, but it was so long ago, and the memories feel rusted, expired. Poking them felt wrong, somehow. Being there for Dean seemed to help, Castiel thinks. Something for Dean to hold on to, even if he would never do it awake.  
            Castiel opened his eyes this morning to Dean’s leg hooked around his, Dean’s arm looped diagonally across his chest so his hand rested against Castiel’s opposite hip. He had also woken up painfully hard. Gingerly, as not to wake Dean, Castiel had crept away from his warm bed and darted into the shower. He felt dirty. Wrong. Like he needed to scrub clean from his body’s sins. But _boy_ did his cock disagree.

            Beneath the stream of the water, Castiel could almost pretend that it was just a case of morning stiffness, that he was a teenager who fell asleep dreaming of some tanned, pretty soccer player he had caught a glimpse of on the TV. That there was most definitely _not_ a gorgeous, green-eyed man who spent the night in Castiel’s bed after getting jumped by three drunk assholes. But the truth of the situation had taken control as soon as Castiel’s hand wrapped itself around his hard shaft, and any selfish thoughts were wiped away, at least until the shower head shut off and he was left in his quickly-cooling, too-bright bathroom just down the hall from Dean’s sleeping form.

            Castiel shuts his eyes as he walks, trying to starve off the memory of his shower escapades before he finds himself hard in front of some grimy frat house stinking of sweat and weed. He clutches his grocery bag tighter and picks up the pace, making it back to the apartment in fifteen minutes. Castiel prays Dean is still fast asleep, not wanting him to wake up and think Castiel had ditched him. In his morning daze, Castiel had forgotten to leave a note.

 

* * *

 

 

            As soon as Castiel looks into the kitchen after shutting the door, his eyes lock with Dean’s. He tries not to drop his gaze to where Dean’s shirt has risen a bit, revealing a sliver of skin. Heat rushes to Castiel’s cheeks, and he walks further inside, setting the grocery bag on the counter like everything is fine, perfectly fine.

            “Good morning, Dean,” Castiel says in a low voice, unpacking the bag with his back turned.

            “Hey, Professor,” Dean replies. “I, uh…I thought you had left.”

            “I got up early and went to the store,” Castiel says, gesturing to the bread and eggs. “Figured you’d probably be hungry, and we don’t have much in the apartment at the moment.”

            “Oh,” Dean says quietly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

            Castiel’s fingers linger on the bread package, fiddling with the twist tie. Maybe Dean doesn’t remember anything from last night, since he was pretty worn out and still drunk when he drifted off. Castiel swallows the thick lump in his throat and starts to pull out the equipment necessary for scrambled eggs and toast.

            “How are you feeling?” he asks, turning the dial on one of the burners to medium. He looks back at Dean, who has taken a seat at the island counter.

            “Pretty as a peach,” Dean quirks with a half-smile.

            Castiel frowns, quickly assessing Dean’s lacerations. The color around Dean’s eye has deepened a bit, but the Band Aide on Dean’s face is still in place and his split lip looks the same. “You should still see a doctor some time today,” Castiel says, turning back to the stove. “Are the ribs any worse?” He sprays a pan with some of that non-stick stuff in a can, then reaches for the eggs and a bowl.

            “Only when I move,” Dean replies, a smile in his voice.

            Castiel’s frown deepens as he cracks the eggs, tossing the shells on a paper towel. He knows that Dean is used to his body taking a few hits—he’s seen it himself countless times during class—but it had always been just a black eye or just a cut, not injuries on top of injuries, all fresh. He wonders if it’s always other students causing Dean harm like the three yesterday. Maybe last night had just been particularly bad. If Dean were a student with the college maybe Castiel could get something done about it, start an investigation or something, but for now Castiel is forced to leave it untouched, no matter how shitty it makes him feel.

            As Castiel cooks, he catches Dean watching him. He wonders what is going on in this boy’s head, if the memories of last night are good or bad or forgotten entirely. Castiel isn’t sure how to categorize them yet. Despite knowing in his head how wrong it was to share the same bed as Dean, he can’t let go of how _good_ it felt to hold him, to run his hand across Dean’s cheek to wipe away the nightmare’s tears.

            After several minutes, Castiel slides a fork, glass of orange juice, and a plate of toast and eggs in front of Dean, then sets down a plate on the countertop opposite him. He considers sitting down, but the only other barstool is right up next to Dean. _Out of the question_.

            “Thanks,” Dean says gratefully, digging into the eggs.

            They eat in silence for a few minutes. It’s the kind of silence hanging on the edge between comfortable and painfully tense, so Castiel does his best to pretend everything is normal. He rests an elbow on the counter and glances at his phone when it lights up with a text from Charlie saying she’ll be home around one.

            “Professor?”

            Castiel looks up from his empty plate. “Yes, Dean?” he asks, swallowing his last mouthful of toast.

            “You know that application for next semester I was working on?” Dean sets down his fork, eyes fixed on his plate. Only a few bits of eggs are left, cold and rubbery. “I was wondering if you could help me with a few things. You know, just so I have the best chance of getting in or whatever.” His eyes lift, and Castiel can’t help but smile at the soft, hopeful expression on the boy’s face.

            Castiel sighs. “Of course I can help,” he says, guilt bubbling up behind his words. He was so damn selfish to ignore Dean this past month following the kiss. It wasn’t Dean’s fault, after all. He never asked for his professor to be such a fuck-up. “I’m sorry for being so…absent the past weeks,” Castiel says carefully, toying with his fork, averting Dean’s eyes. “But I want you to know that you can still come to me if you ever need help.” His fingers still, and Castiel watches Dean’s bruised face as he speaks. “With anything, even if it’s just to talk.”

            “Can we talk now?”

            Castiel pauses, then says in an unsteady voice, “sure, Dean.”

            Dean’s lips part, and for a second, Castiel thinks he’s about to say something about the nightmares, or maybe the attack last night. But then a pink heat rushes to Dean’s cheeks, his eyes holding fast to Castiel’s. “I want to talk about what happened at your party.”

            Castiel’s breathing hitches, and after a second he tears his gaze away from Dean, pulling away their plates and turning to the sink. He scrapes the remaining eggs into the basin, then turns on the water. “That was a mistake,” Castiel says over the gush of the faucet. He stares down at the sink, at the pieces of yellow and flecks of brown swirling inwards, faster and faster until they spiral down and disappear into the drain. “If you’re done eating, I think you should go—Professor Bradbury will be back soon,” he lies, hating himself but not knowing what else to do, not wanting the confrontation, the accusations of _fag_ and _perv_ to happen right now. He’s stupid and selfish, but Castiel doesn’t want to hear those words from Dean’s lips today. He wants to hang on to the untainted memory of last night.

            “Professor,” Dean says, his voice raised above the sound of the faucet. Castiel hears the barstool scrape back. He shuts off the faucet and moves to the refrigerator, pretending he doesn’t notice Dean coming closer as he puts away the carton of eggs. “Professor, hey,” Dean says, annoyance building up behind his words.

            Castiel shuts the fridge, wincing when it slams harder than he meant. “I know what you’re going to say,” Castiel forces out, keeping his eyes anywhere but Dean. “So you might as well leave.”

            Dean shifts so he’s standing directly in front of him, and Castiel feels his body tense, his back leaning up against the fridge. A magnet pokes into his shoulder. Charlie’s NASA one, judging by the texture.

            Dean pauses. Castiel becomes hyperaware of his own breathing, of his heartrate hammering against his chest.

            “Castiel,” Dean says softly, gently, like he’s coaxing out some worked-up animal trying to free itself from a trap.

            _There it is again_. A shiver runs up Castiel’s spine, and despite his best interest, Castiel looks up. “Say it, then,” he forces out, staring into Dean’s moss-colored eyes, one rimmed in sun-kissed skin and freckles, the other in clouds of black and purple.

            “Say what?”

            Castiel fights to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head. “That I deserve to be fired from the school. That I ought to end up in jail for being a fag who preys on students. That you never want to see my perverted face again. Take your pick,” Castiel spits out in a stream of self-loathing.

            Suddenly, a smile catches hold of the corner of Dean’s mouth, the side not tender and swollen and red. The smile cracks open his lips, spreading to his sharp cheekbones, his flashing green eyes. Dean rocks back on his heels, shaking his head with a grin and running a hand through his hair. “You’re serious?”

            Castiel’s brows furrow. “Yes.”

            “You stupid son of a…” Dean takes a step closer, then presses his palm into the fridge, right by Castiel’s ear. Castiel instinctively back up, his head bumping into the hard surface. “I _wanted_ you to kiss me,” Dean whispers, his breath washing over Castiel’s skin, warm and sweet and smelling of orange juice and breakfast.

            “No,” Castiel says, shaking his head as much as possible in the confined space. “No one wants their perverted old professor to kiss them. I don’t believe you.”

            Dean tilts his head, and the corners of his eyes crinkle up, a smile spreading over his entire face, unmarked and bloodied, bruised alike. “It’s true,” he whispers. Dean’s gaze slips from Castiel’s eyes to his lips, then without hesitation, Dean leans forward. His lips brush against Castiel’s, parted slightly, soft and gentle.

            Castiel forgets how to breathe, forgets how to think, then as Dean presses closer, he feels his body awakening beneath Dean’s kiss. He lets his lips relax, lets them melt into the warmth and pressure of Dean. He responds to the kiss, careful not to press too much into the injured corner of Dean’s mouth. His hands finds Dean’s hips, then he lets them slide upward, flattening against the small of Dean’s back. The hand by Castiel’s ear shifts closer, fingers winding their way through his hair.

            Castiel urges Dean closer with his hands. Dean’s tongue gently prods against Castiel’s lips, and he dutifully opens them, allowing Dean to slip inside. Castiel’s fingers slide back down to Dean’s hips, settling there as he responds in turn, tongue meeting Dean’s, tasting his way into Dean’s hot, wet mouth. He feels Dean’s other hand come up to the side of his face, cupping his chin, urging Castiel for _more_.

            Dean gives it to him, slotting a knee between Castiel’s legs, tilting slightly up until Castiel feels something hard press against his thigh. Castiel groans into the kiss as Dean repeats the motion before dropping his hands down to the curve of Dean’s ass, pulling him closer, letting the stiffness in Dean’s sweatpants feel the hardness in his own.

            Some time between forever and a couple minutes, Dean pulls away, breathing hard, leaving Castiel aching for more. His fingers slip to the side of Castiel’s face, burning into the rough skin of his jaw, stroking Castiel’s chin with his thumb.

            Their eyes meet. Castiel swallows, blinking, wondering if he just woke up from a very, very good dream. Or maybe he’s back jerking off in the shower. He opens his mouth, not knowing what to say.

             A grin returns to Dean’s face. Even bruised and broken, Dean is the most beautiful thing Castiel has ever laid eyes on.

             “What about now?”

       


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I apologize for not posting a new chapter for a while! Life got in the way, and for a moment I was feeling hesitant about updating this story. After writing this chapter, I'm feeling a lot more excited, and I hope the chapter makes the wait worthwhile.  
> Hope you like it, and thank you for reading :)

            Castiel doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to _think_. Castiel unconsciously bites his lip, reminding himself that whatever just happened was real.

            Dean Winchester kissed him.

            Dean Winchester wanted to kiss him.

            Castiel looks back at Dean, watching in his expectant expression. He swallows, then nods.

            A boyish grin takes over Dean’s face. “Good,” Dean mutters, leaning in to gently capture Castiel’s lips again. “That’s what I was hoping to hear,” he says against Castiel’s mouth, nipping lightly at Castiel’s bottom lip.

            Castiel presses into the kiss, hand reaching back up to card through Dean’s hair. The kiss is slower now, less frenzied, but still Castiel can feel his body gearing up for whatever they had been building to just a minute ago. After a moment, Castiel pulls away, breathing a little harder from the kiss. He stares into Dean’s eyes, gently running his fingers through the messy hair at Dean’s temple. “How old are, Dean?”

            Dean huffs a little laugh. “You gonna blue ball me if you don’t like the answer?”

            Castiel blushes and looks away. “It’s not something I can just ignore, if…”

            “Well you don’t have to worry, ok?” Dean says, catching Castiel’s gaze. “I’m nineteen.” He shifts closer, lips just hovering, ghosting, against Castiel’s. “We can do whatever we want,” Dean whispers against Castiel’s mouth, before pressing in and kissing him again.

            _Nineteen_. _So you’re still an old perv, but at least it’s legal_ , Castiel reasons. He responds to Dean’s kiss, his hand on Dean’s head pressing harder, urging Dean forward. _At least you’re not going to jail_.

            Castiel tries to forget about Dean’s age, tries to forget about the consequences and the context and everything _wrong_ with the situation taking place in his small apartment kitchen. He decides to feel, just feel, and worry about the rest later.

            Castiel drops his hand slightly, letting it cup the nape of Dean’s neck. He keeps his grip firm but not painful, his heartbeat quickening with the feel of Dean in his hand. As Dean’s lips part, Castiel slides in his tongue, swiping it against the wet heat of Dean’s mouth.

            Just as Castiel hears a low groan rumble low in Dean’s throat, Castiel uses his grip on Dean’s neck to flip them around, pressing Dean back into the fridge.

            Dean lets out a surprised gasp at the sudden change of position, but responds by just kissing Dean harder, faster, more urgently. Castiel lets go of Dean’s neck to place his right palm against the smooth metal, the other finding a home on Dean’s hip. Since the sweatpants Castiel gave him are a little too big, Castiel’s fingers slip easily under the waistband, curling into Dean’s warm skin.

            In response, Dean’s hands move to Castiel’s own hips, drawing him closer, pressing their bodies together as the pace of their kiss quickens. Castiel groans as the shape of Dean’s hard length presses into his thigh, and he gently rolls his hips forwards, allowing Dean to feel his own hardness.

            “Fuck, man,” Dean mutters when Castiel breaks away for a second to breathe. “I should have said something sooner.”

            Castiel smiles against Dean’s mouth, kissing him silent. Then he breaks away again, planting a kiss on the unhurt side of Dean’s mouth, his cheek, the hinge of his hard jaw. Castiel bends a little at the knees, dropping lower to press a wet kiss against the side of Dean’s neck, against the vein pulsing with Dean’s quick heartbeat, against the soft hollow of his throat. He feels the way Dean’s throat flutters when he kisses him there and slowly drags his tongue across the same spot, lavishing the delicate skin. Dean gulps again, and Castiel straightens to his full height to kiss Dean’s kiss-swollen lips.

            “Are you sure about this?” Castiel asks, thumb gently sliding across Dean’s hip. He looks over Dean’s black eye and wounded forehead with a frown. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Castiel hopes Dean understands he means it in more than just the physical sense.

            Dean answers with a kiss, then reaches down to wind his fingers through Castiel’s. “You won’t hurt me,” he whispers, the warmth of his breath washing over Castiel’s mouth.

 Before Castiel can object, Dean steps away from the fridge, leading Castiel towards the hallway and into Castiel’s bedroom. As they enter, Castiel swallows. It was one thing to fantasize about this—another to have Dean here last night, tired and tipsy and seeking comfort. But now? Now there’s a warm beam of sunlight cutting through the room, bathing the bed in an unyielding morning light. The comforter is still wrinkled with the evidence of them sleeping together last night, with Castiel’s side of the bed only slightly more neat from how still he kept most of the time.  

            Dean drops Castiel’s hand and climbs up onto the bed, sliding backwards until his head reaches the pillows.

            A blush rushes to Castiel’s face at the sight, and he suddenly feels out of place just standing there by the bed. In the kitchen it was the heat of the moment, but now…now they were about to do _something_ in Castiel’s own bedroom.

            A quiet laugh sounds from the bed, and Castiel realizes he just zoned out for a moment, just staring at Dean’s waiting body. “You just going to stand there?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow.

            Castiel smiles, shaking his head. He takes a deep breath, then climbs on and straddles Dean’s waist. Castiel dips down, pressing his lips into Dean’s.

            They kiss like that for a few minutes, slowly, lazily, just lips against lips and fingers curling into the bedspread. When Dean’s hand reaches up to press against Castiel’s chest, Castiel briefly deepens the kiss, then shifts back slightly. He gently takes Dean’s wrist, pulling his back up off the mattress. Castiel reaches down, never breaking away from the heat of Dean’s mouth, to grasp the hem of Dean’s shirt.

            Understanding what Castiel wants, Dean lifts up his arms as Castiel discards the t-shirt. Castiel quickly disposes of his own as Dean falls back against the bed.

            Castiel can’t help but suck in a breath at the sight of Dean’s bare chest beneath the morning sunlight, against his soft comforter, muscled and toned and _beautiful_. When his eyes drop lower, Castiel sees the bruises on Dean’s left ribs, purple and dark and obviously still sore.

            He kisses Dean’s lips, then leaves a trail of kisses from his chin to the hollow of his throat, again marveling at the way Dean gasps when Castiel presses into the sensitive spot. Castiel dips lowering, kissing Dean’s left shoulder, then his right. He marks a pathway down Dean’s chest with light, wet kisses, never lingering or pressing hard enough to leave a mark. Dean has enough of those for now. The entire time, Castiel can feel Dean watching him, can feel the way Dean’s muscles shiver against Castiel’s lips. Dean leaves his hands on the comforter, fingers curled slightly harder into the fabric.

            Castiel kisses the unbruised side of Dean’s ribs, then slowly kisses his way to the other. He applies only the faintest amount of pressure to the blooming, dark bruises, tracing the edges with his lips, then leaving one final kiss in the very center. Shifting back again, Castiel kisses Dean’s hipbones, then the hard muscle of his abdomen at the base of his waistband. Castel raises his head, staring into Dean’s eyes.

            Dean nods, head falling even deeper into the pillows.

            Castiel hooks his two pointer fingers into Dean’s waistband, sliding down the material. Dean lifts his hips to allow him to pull the pants down his legs, and Castiel blushes when he realizes he never gave Dean a fresh pair of boxers to sleep in.

            When the sweatpants are just a pile on the floor, Castiel moves back up, taking Dean’s already hard cock into his hand. He runs his palm up and down Dean’s considerable length, evoking a drawn-out groan from deep within Dean’s chest. Castiel smiles at the way Dean claws at the mattress, searching for some kind of relief from the contact.

            Castiel pumps Dean a few more times in hand, then places his hands on Dean’s hips, holding him firmly into the mattress. He wraps his lips around the leaking head of Dean’s cock—Dean nearly arches off the bed at the sudden change, unable to bite back his groan of pleasure.

            It takes Castiel a few tries, but he manages to swallow Dean down, trying his best to leave his jaw slack while his nose brushes up against Dean’s trimmed pubes. A hand weaves into Castiel’s hair, urging for more that Castiel is happy to supply. He bobs back up, sucking hard on the head before dipping back down again, trying not to smile at the filthy sounds Dean is making.

            With Dean’s hand in his hair to guide him, Castiel soon finds a rhythm, sucking down, lifting up, swiping his tongue against the sensitive tip of Dean’s dick. As he quickens the pace, Castiel feels his own cock hardening. Dean seems to sense it too, and he reaches down to try and find Castiel’s waistband—Castiel gags a bit from the sudden motion, gently pulling Dean’s hand away. He wants today to be about Dean, just Dean. Castiel wants this boy to feel good beneath his hands and mouth. He wants Dean to feel safe, taken care of, worshipped. Maybe it’s just Castiel’s tendency towards wanting to help, and maybe it has something to do with the wounds on Dean’s body, but he feels a deep desire to _heal_ Dean Winchester, in whatever way he can, in whatever way Dean will give him the honor of doing.

            The pressure on his head makes Castiel realize his rhythm has waned a bit, and he promptly picks up the pace. While keeping one hand on Dean’s hip, Castiel slips the other down his own sweatpants and boxers, wrapping a hand around his heavy cock. Castiel pumps his dick in time to his head bobbing over Dean, and he begins to feel his own pleasure building low in his gut.

  _God_ what was Dean doing to him?

            After a minute, Dean’s breathing becomes faster and heavier, his fingers nearly painful against Castiel’s scalp.

            “ _Cas_ ,” Dean says through a strangled cry, driving Castiel’s head lower every time he dips down. Dean lifts his hips slightly, rutting up into the heat of Castiel’s mouth, the head of his cock bumping against the back of Castiel’s throat.

            Castiel gags but forces himself to suck even harder. The edge of his own orgasm bubbles forward, and Castiel works his hand faster, works his mouth deeper to allow Dean to do as he wants.

            Just as Castiel dips down to Dean’s pubes, Dean gives a little yank on his hair, and a strangled cry falls from Dean’s lips. Castiel opens his jaw as much as possible and buries his face in Dean’s short hair as Dean comes, heat pulsing down Castiel’s throat as he swallows every drop.

            The coiling in his abdomen builds as Castiel works his throat through Dean’s orgasm, and after a few more tugs, Castiel pulls off Dean’s spent cock with a wet _pop_ , groaning as his own pleasure spills over the edge. Castiel rolls off to one side, eyes squeezed shut as the pleasure of his climax washes over his body. Several seconds pass before the wet feeling in his boxers becomes all too real, and he opens his eyes to look over at Dean. After only a brief moment of hesitation, Castiel shifts up on one elbow, pressing a gentle kiss onto Dean’s full lips.

            Dean releases a shaky laugh, his long eyelashes fluttering as he looks over at Castiel. A lazy smile finds Dean’s mouth. “That…that was awesome,” Dean says through his smile.

            Castiel blushes, then falls back down and stares up at the ceiling as his breathing comes back to normal. He grimaces slightly at the stickiness drying in his pants. “I’m happy you think so,” he says, earning another laugh.

            “What, you didn’t think it would be?” Dean asks. He runs his fingertips against Castiel’s upper arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps.

            Castiel glances back over, knowing full well how red his cheeks are. “I…I haven’t done that very much before.”

            Dean’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Seriously?”

            He gives a little nod. “I was only ever with one other guy,” he says quietly, wondering why he’s telling Dean this. He hasn’t told anyone, really, besides Charlie. And even then, he left out some of the details for her sake. Besides, Castiel couldn’t exactly talk sex insecurities with your homophobic mother. Castiel watches Dean’s eyes, waiting for whatever look he’s expecting Dean to have—disappointment, freaked-the-hell-out, rejection—but Dean just waits for him to continue, his fingers running idly against Castiel’s skin. “We did…some stuff when I was in college, but after that, I guess I never found anyone else.” After a pause, he says with a slight smile, “Bartholomew would be pleased to know I did well today.”

            “Balthazar?”

            Castiel laughs softly. “I think it’s a religious name.” His eyes drop to Dean’s lips, and Castiel has to fight the urge to just kiss him again, pretend like they’re both not spent after a round of wonderful morning sex. “Have you…” he asks, a question in his voice.

            Dean nods. “Boys and girls, if you’re wondering,” Dean says nonchalantly. His fingers have moved up a bit, now tracing lazy circles into Castiel’s shoulder.

            “Does that mean I’m not corrupting you, then?”

            Dean laughs, then rolls over onto his side to better face Castiel. His fingers travel up to Castiel’s jaw, stroking the rough skin where Castiel needs a shave. “It just means you’ll have to try harder to corrupt me,” he says, a dark, mischievous look in his moss-green eyes. Dean leans over and kisses him. When Dean pulls away, Castiel watches his eyes flick over Castiel’s face. “You were lying about Professor Bradbury coming over soon, right?”

            Castiel glances up at the alarm clock glowing from his dresser on the other side of the room. _Nearly 11._ “I was,” he says sheepishly. “But she is actually coming back around one.”

            Dean bites his lip, then sighs. “Probably best if she doesn’t catch me naked in your bed.”

            “Probably.”

            Dean looks back up at the clock. “Shit,” he mutters, raking a hand through his disheveled hair. “My Dad’s probably awake by now. Hungover, but awake.”

            Castiel frowns. “Do you want me to take you to the hospital first?”

            Dean shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.” When Castiel eyes him skeptically, Dean kisses the look off his face. “You already kissed everything better,” he says in a low voice against Castiel’s lips, causing Castiel to blush. He gives Castiel one more soft, lingering kiss, then slides off the bed to gather the sweatpants Castiel had thrown off.

            Castiel considers asking Dean about going to the police, but decides against it. What happened last night outside the frat house isn’t his business, no matter how much Castiel wants it to be. Dean will tell him when he’s ready.

            As Castiel admires the view of Dean dressing, a small bit of disappointment twinges in his gut. He hopes this isn’t the last time he’ll get this sight, but at the end of the day, it was Dean’s choice if he ever wanted to see Castiel again. As Dean steps into the bathroom, Castiel quickly changes into fresh boxers and sweatpants, deciding to leave his shirt off for now. He helps Dean gather his soiled clothes from last night, then hands back the Impala’s keys when Dean is dressed and standing by the door.

            They stand there for a moment, Castiel’s hand awkwardly hovering by the doorknob, Dean’s fingers toying with the cuff of his leather jacket.

            “Take care, Dean,” Castiel says finally, clearing his throat.

            The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches, then in a sudden movement, Dean closes the distance between them, backing Castiel up against the door, pressing his lips into Castiel’s. Dean runs a hand up Castiel’s bare chest, leaving a trail of heat from the contact.

            They kiss for at least a five minutes before Dean drags himself away, breathing hard and grinning. “See you later, Professor,” Dean says, eyes on Castiel’s mouth.

            Again, Castiel’s cheeks grow hot. He gives Dean one last kiss, then straightens up and opens the door. Castiel watches him until he disappears down the hallway, until all he can hear is the steady _thud_ of Dean’s boots against the carpet.

            Castiel shuts the door and leans back against it, smiling but missing the pressure of Dean’s body. He sighs, a hand coming up to prod his lips.

Castiel drops his hand back down, then lets out a long, deep sigh. For the first time in a long while, his head feels clear, weightless, like he was given permission to breathe again.

           

 


End file.
